1 


( 


FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 


REV.    LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 


BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 


THE   LIBRARY  OF 


PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


THE     t  ^  sip  23 1936  ^ 


JANE     TAYLOR 


IN  FIVE  VOLUMES. 


VOL.    V. 


CORRESPONDENCE,  AND  ORIGINAL  POEMS. 


BOSTON: 
PUBLISHED   BY    PERKINS  &  MARVIN. 

PHILADELPHIA— FRENCH  h  PERKINS. 

1832. 


CORRESPONDENCE 


A    MOTHER 


HER    DAUGHTER    AT    SCHOOL 


BY     MRS.    TAYLOR 


JANE  TAYLOR. 


FROM  SEVENTH  LONDON  EDITION. 


BOSTON: 

PERKINS  &  MARVIN,  114,  WASHINGTON  STREET. 

1832. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

For  the  purpose  of  conveying  instruction  to 
young  people  at  school,  the  method  of  letters 
from  a  mother  was  adopted,  as  the  most  natural 
and  convenient,  and  as  the  most  likely  to  en- 
gage the  attention  of  those  for  whose  use  the 
volume  is  designed. 

It  is  hoped,  the  letters  of  Laura  will  not  be 
considered  as  intruders  in  these  pages.  While 
they  wTere  intended  to  render  the  work  some- 
what more  amusing  to  the  young  reader,  it  will 
be  seen  that  it  was  not  with  a  view  to  her 
amusement  only  that  they  were  written. 

That  the  best  interests  of  their  young  friends 
— to  whom  the  volume  is  affectionately  dedicat- 
ed— may  be  promoted  by  its  perusal,  is  the 
sincere  wish  of  the 

MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER. 


CORRESPONDENCE, 

&c. 


LETTER  1. 


My  dear,  dear  Mother, 

During  the  greatest  part  of  my  journey  yester- 
day, I  employed  myself  in  planning  a  long  letter, 
which  I  fully  intended  to  write  to  you  as  soon  as 
I  arrived.  It  was  chiefly  about  the  pain  I  felt  at 
parting  with  you;  and  although  I  feel  it  as  much, 
almost,  to-day,  as  I  did  yesterday,  yet  I  think 
you  will  be  better  pleased  to  hear  something  of 
my  new  situation,  and  how  I  like  Mrs.  W. 

I  shall  never  forget  what  I  felt,  as  we  drove 
out  of  town  yesterday  morning;  however,  I  de- 
termined to  keep  it  all  to  myself,  and  thought  I 
had  quite  dried  up  my  tears;  but  just  as  we  turn- 
ed off  the  common  on  to  the  London  road,  I  hap- 
pened, unfortunately,  to  look  at  the  milestone, 
where,  you  remember,  our  learned  overseers  in- 
form us,  that  "  Here  end  the  parish  of  St.  Greg- 
ory." So  beginning  to  laugh  (as  I  intended  at 
vol.  v.  1* 


6  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

least)  at  our  Suffolk  grammar,  it  turned  into  a 
fit  of  crying,  or  something  between  laughing  and 
crying,  I  scarcely  know  which.  After  that,  the 
country  was  very  flat  and  dull  for  many  miles, 
and  at  last  I  began  to  grow  stupid  and  sleepy. 
But  I  cannot  stay  now  to  tell  you  more  about  the 
journey,  especially  as  nothing  particular  happened 
all  the  rest  of  the  way. 

We  did  not  arrive  here  till  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  when,  after  driving  quite  through  a  long 
dullish-looking  street,  we  stopped  at  Mrs.  W.'s 
gate.  It  is  a  red-brick  house,  the  last  in  the 
village,  and  stands  in  a  garden,  a  little  way  back 
from  the  road,  with  an  immense  row  of  tall  pop- 
lars before  it,  looking  like  so  many  sentinels. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  felt  as  I  walked  up  the 
gravel  walk  to  the  hall  door,  where  Mrs.  W.  her- 
self stood  to  receive  me.  She  spoke  very  kindly, 
and  looked  more  agreeable  than  I  expected.  She 
first  took  me  into  her  own  parlor,  and  began  to 
make  many  inquiries  about  you  and  papa,  and  so 
on:  but  I  felt  so  stiff  and  strange  you  can't  imag- 
ine! and  I  am  sure  she  thought  me  the  stupidest 
creature;  for  I  could  think  of  nothing  in  the 
world  to  say,  but  "yes,  ma'am,"  and  te  no, 
ma'am;"  and  so  I  sat  twisting  my  gloves:  till  at 
last  she  proposed  introducing  me  to  the  young 
ladies. 

Only  five  of  them  are  yet  come ;  but  fifteen 
more  are  expected  in  a  day  or  two.     You  cannot 


A  xMOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  7 

think  how  forlorn  I  felt,  when  I  found  myself 
shut  up  with  these  five  strange  girls  in  the  school- 
room. It  was  then  growing  quite  dusk,  so  that  I 
could  not  discern  their  faces,  nor  they  mine.  I 
could  only  see  that  we  were  in  a  large  room, 
without  any  carpet,  with  a  long  table  set  out  in 
the  middle,  and  an  immense  pair  of  globes  in  one 
corner.  I  sat  down  by  myself  in  a  window-seat, 
two  of  the  girls  were  sitting  in  the  other,  whisper- 
ing to  each  other;  and  I  observed  that  one  of 
them  leaned  forward  sometimes  to  peep  at  me. 
The  other  three  were  only  little  ones.  I  think 
I  never,  in  my  whole  life,  felt  so  uncomfortable 
as  I  did  then.  However,  it  did  not  last  long;  for 
in  a  few  minutes,  one  of  the  girls  who  had  been 
whispering  in  the  window-seat,  came  and  seated 
herself  by  me,  and  spoke  in  the  most  free,  affec- 
tionate manner  you  can  imagine.  Her  name  is 
Jessy  Cooke — a  pretty  name,  isn't  it?  She  said 
she  remembered  how  miserable  she  was  the  first 
day  she  came  to  school,  and  that  she  always 
felt  a  great  deal  for  new  girls;  and  she  added, 
which  I  thought  very  kind,  that  she  had  never 
felt  so  much  for  any  one  as  for  me.  I  thanked 
her,  and  said  that  I  did,  indeed,  feel  rather 
uncomfortable,  as  I  had  never  left  my  dear  father 
and  mother  before,  and  as  I  was  not  much  accus- 
tomed to  see  strangers.  H  Strangers!  that  5s  a 
cold  word,"  said  she;  "you  must  not  apply  it 
to  me,  indeed  you  must  not!"  and  then  she  took 


8  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

my  hand,  and  said,  in  the  kindest  manner,  "I 
hope  you  will  allow  me  to  be  your  friend!"  How 
little  did  I  expect  to  find  one  so  soon  !  She  is  all 
heart,  and  so  unreserved! 

The  other  young  lady,  Miss  Grace  Dacre,  is 
of  quite  a  different  temper.  Jessy  Cooke  told 
me  so:  and  if  she  had  not,  I  should  soon  have 
found  it  out;  for  the  moment  the  candles  came  in, 
she  gave  me  such  a  scrutinizing  look:  and  when 
she  saw  Jessy  and  me  sitting  hand  in  hand,  I  per- 
ceived a  smile  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  and 
she  turned  away,  and  began  playing  with  the  lit- 
tle ones.  She  has  not  spoken  three  sentences  to 
me  since  I  came.  How  I  do  dislike  such  cold, 
reserved  dispositions! 

Jessy  Cooke  and  I  sleep  in  the  same  room, 
which  I  am  particularly  glad  of.  Dear  girl!  she 
has  told  me  almost  all  her  heart. 

I  have  risen  early  this  morning,  my  dearest 
mamma,  in  order  that  you  might  hear  of  my  safe 
arrival,  by  to-day's  post.  In  my  next,  I  shall  be 
able  to  tell  you  a  great  deal  more,  as  the  other 
ladies  will  be  come  by  that  time,  and  I  shall  have 
entered  upon  my  new  employments.  There  are 
two  teachers,  but  only  one  is  come  yet.  She  is 
in  deep  mourning  for  her  father,  and,  they  say, 
has  never  been  out  before.  I  pitied  her  last 
night,  as  she  was  sitting  with  us,  she  looked  so 
melancholy.  The  only  thing  I  like  in  Miss  Dacre 
is,  that  she  seems  very  attentive  to  her. 


A    MOTHER   AND    DAUGHTER.  9 

The  bell  rings,  and  I  must  conclude  instantly. 
My  kindest  love  to  dear  papa  and  Kitty.  Pray 
don't  forget  to  feed  my  pigeons.  What  a  long 
half  year  before  I  shall  see  you !  Pray  write  as 
soon  as  you  can,  my  dear  mamma;  and  believe 
me  your  dutiful  and  affectionate  daughter, 

Laura. 

P.  S.  12  o'clock. — I  love  Jessy  Cooke  better 
every  hour.  She  was  much  surprised  to  hear 
that  I  was  only  fifteen. 


LETTER  II. 

My  dear  Laura, 

Just  about  the  time  that  you  were  passing  the 
boundaries  of  St.  Gregory,  your  sister  and  I  were 
visiting  your  deserted  chamber;  where  poor  Kit- 
ty wept  aloud,  and  I  wiped  an  involuntary  tear 
from  my  cheek.  But  the  pang  of  such  a  separa- 
tion ought  not  to  be  very  poignant,  when  the  ben- 
efit which  we  expect  to  derive  from  it  is  consider- 
ed: we  may  reasonably  hope  the  effects  of  this 
absence  will  repay  us  for  the  sacrifice;  and  as 
our  own  insulated  neighborhood  does  not  afford 
us  the  means  of  giving  you  some  advantages  we 
wish  you  to  possess,  we  doubt  not  but  you  will  so 


10  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

industriously  improve  your  present  opportunities, 
that,  when  you  return,  we  shall  feel  amply  com- 
pensated for  this  short  suspension  of  your  kind 
and  dutiful  offices.  Indeed,  the  pain  we  felt  at 
parting  is  productive  of  pleasure,  when  we  trace 
it  to  the  mutual  affection  which  occasioned  it:  and 
when  we  remember,  that  in  some  unhappy  fami- 
lies, such  ja  separation  would  be  esteemed  a  relief 
rather  than  a  privation.  Although  we  have  to 
dispense  for  a  time  with  the  society  of  one  whom 
we  love,  we  have  the  pleasing  anticipation  of  en- 
joying it  again,  with  all  that  endeared  it  to  us  (as 
we  earnestly  hope)  unimpaired;  and  with  some 
valuable  attainments  superadded.  It  is  but  half  a 
year,  my  dear  girl!  when  we  hope  to  see  you 
again.  A  little  speck  of  time,  indeed!  Yet  we 
might  esteem  such  periods  long,  when  we  remem- 
ber that  a  few  of  them  will  change  your  auburn 
locks  to  gray;  and  then,  that  a  few  more  will  lay 
you  in  the  dust.  If  this  be  the  case,  how  pre- 
cious are.  they!  You  are  now  a  child;  but  a 
little  while  will  bring  you  to  maturity,  when  you 
will  be  required  to  act  for  yourself.  This  will  so 
soon  be  the  case,  that  it  is  almost  enough  to 
alarm  you.  Consider  what  a  poor  figure  you 
would  make  in  the  world  with  your  present  stock 
of  knowledge  and  experience:  how  little  able  to 
conduct  yourself — still  less  to  govern  others. 
Yet,  you  may  be  encouraged  by  reflecting  on  the 
great  progress  some  have  made  in  as  short  a  time, 


A  MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  1 1 

and  often  in  less  advantageous  circumstances. 
Let  these  considerations  stimulate  you  to  exertion 
in  your  various  pursuits;  but  ever  remembering, 
that  as  your  education  is  intended  to  prepare  you 
for  the  duties  of  the  present  life,  so  the  primary 
business  of  this  life  itself,  is  to  qualify  you  for 
one  which  is  to  come.  Amongst  so  many  occu- 
pations that  have  no  direct  relation  to  this  grand 
object,  and  amongst  so  many  temptations  to  neg- 
lect it,  it  is  particularly  necessary,  my  dear  child, 
to  remind. you  that    "  one  thing  is  needful." 

You  say  that  Mrs.  W.  looked  more  agreeable 
than  you  expected.  Did  you  expect  her  then  to 
look  disagreeable?  Must  it  follow,  because  she 
has  undertaken  the  arduous  work  of  your  educa- 
tion— the  formation  of  your  mind  and  manners, 
and  the  control  of  your  conduct — that  she  should 
be  a  tyrant?  She  who  has  engaged,  as  far  as 
circumstances  will  permit,  to  supply  a  mother's 
place!  It  would  indeed  be  as  unreasonable  to 
expect  her  to  feel  all  the  affections  of  a  parent 
towards  her  numerous  family,  as  to  require  them 
to  cultivate  flial  affection  towards  her.  Yet  she 
may,  and  I  have  no  doubt  she  does,  cherish  the 
amiable  sensations  of  benevolence  and  kindness 
towards  those  under  her  care.  In  return,  they 
are  bound  to  repay  her  with  every  expression  of 
gratitude  and  affection  in  their  power.  Should 
there  be  any  towards  whom,  from  their  amiable 
conduct,  she  might  be  inclined  to  indulge  a  more 


12  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

particular  attachment,  her  situation  forbids  her 
to  discover  it  in  any  other  way,  than  by  such 
marks  of  her  approbation,  as  even  the  perverse 
must,  in  their  consciences,  approve.  She  must 
conduct  herself  impartially  towards  all;  distri- 
buting rewards  and  punishments  with  an  equal 
hand.  That  fostering  kindness,  therefore — those 
little  indulgences  which  make  some  children  pine 
after  home — must  be  dispensed  with  at  school, 
from  the  very  nature  of  it;  and  resigned  for  more 
solid  advantages.  Children  are  sent  there  for  the 
purposes  of  instruction;  and  while  this  object, 
and  their  general  health  and  welfare  are  assidu- 
ously attended  to,  it  is  all  that  can  reasonably  be 
expected.  I  would  aim,  my  dear  Laura,  to  pre- 
vent you  from  raising  your  expectations  too  high 
of  what  should  be  required  in  your  governess; 
while  I  would  excite  in  you  that  veneration  for 
her  character  to  which  she  is  justly  entitled.  Do 
not  suppose  a  benevolent  and  tender  disposition 
towards  you  inconsistent  with  the  strict  disci- 
pline she  is  obliged  to  maintain:  great  is  the 
charge  she  has  undertaken;  and  arduous  is  her 
task.  You  will  believe  this  when  you  see  the 
various  dispositions  she  has  to  encounter;  as  it  is 
more  than  probable  that  there  will  be  some  dull, 
some  obstinate,  some  untractable,  some  indolent 
among  you.  May  my  Laura  not  add  to  the 
number. 

In  addition  to  these  difficult  duties,  you  must 


A  MOTHER  AND   DAUGHTER.  13 

remember  that  she  has  her  own  private  concerns, 
in  common  with  other  people;  and  is  subject  to 
the  same  bodily  indispositions.  Some  young 
ladies  act  as  though  they  forgot  this,  or  were  quite 
regardless  of  it:  but  my  dear  Laura  will  remem- 
ber, that  if  her  mother  is  occasionally  depressed 
under  the  cares  and  sorrows  inseparable  from 
human  life,  her  governess  may  possibly  have  a 
share  of  them. 

There  will  be  some  amiable  girls  among  you, 
no  doubt,  who  will  render  her  work  pleasant;  and 
I  hope  and  believe  you  will  be  one  .of  the  first 
who,  by  respectful  conduct,  and  a  teachable  dis- 
position, will  do  all  in  your  power  to  lessen  her 
cares,  and  prevent  her  the  mortification  of  return- 
ing you  to  us,  without  the  end  answered  for  which 
you  were  placed  under  her  superintendence. 

Your  pigeons  would  be  fed,  even  if  they  were 
not  yours.  Though  I  must  say  they  flit  about  as 
blithely,  and  seem  as  forgetful  of  their  benefac- 
tress, as  some  are  apt  to  be  who  are  not  pigeons. 

I  must  suspend  my  congratulations  respecting 
your  new  friend,  until  you  are  better  acquainted 
with  her.  That  you  have  old  ones  you  will  not 
doubt,  in  your  papa,  your  sister,  and 

your  affectionate  Mother. 

P.  S.     I  wonder  that  Miss  Jessy  Cooke  should 
suppose  you  to  be  more  than  fifteen,  as  you  were 
always  thought  small  for  your  age. 
vol.  v.  2 


14  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 


LETTER  III. 

I  could  not  have  believed,  my  dear  mamma, 
that  I  should  so  soon  have  become  reconciled  to 
my  absence  from  home.  But,  I  assure  you,  I 
have  so  many  things  to  do  and  to  think  of  here, 
and  in  the  short  intervals  of  employment  there  is 
so  much  to  interest  me,  that  though  I  find  plenty 
of  time  for  affectionate  thoughts,  I  have  none  for 
melancholy  reflections. 

You  must  not  expect,  in  these  few  weeks,  to 
hear  of  my  having  made  any  particular  progress. 
I  find  however,  already,  the  great  advantage,  to 
my  volatile  temper,  of  being  obliged  to  apply  with 
so  much  regularity.  And  I  do  hope  that  you  and 
papa  will  not  have  to  lament,  that  your  kindness 
in  sending  me  here  has  been  quite  thrown  away. 

I  am  often  reminded  of  your  cautions  on  the 
subject  of  emulation.  Mrs.  W.  I  am  certain  is 
exactly  of  your  opinion  about  it.  She  takes  great 
pains  to  check  in  us  a  spirit  of  competition  and 
rivalry;  while  she  endeavors  to  inspire  us  with 
the  genuine  love  of  knowledge,  and  with  a  true 
taste  for  our  acquirements;  urging  us  to  be  more 
ambitious  to  excel  ourselves,  than  to  excel  each 
other.  Do  you  know,  she  has  so  much  penetra- 
tion, that  she  has  found  out  a  great  many  of  my 
faults  already.  The  other  day,  when  speaking  of 
emulation,  she  told  me  that  although  her  admoni- 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  15 

tions  on  that  subject  were  not  so  applicable  to  me 
as  to 'some  others,  she  could  not  compliment  me 
on  my  superior  magnanimity.  "  My  dear,"  she 
said,  "  it  would  gratify  you,  would  it  not,  to  sur- 
pass your  companions?  and  yet,  rather  than  sub- 
mit to  the  toil  of  competition,  or  hazard  the  morti- 
fication of  being  outdone,  you  are  ready  to  stand 
still  and  let  them  all  get  the  start  of  you."  When 
she  said  this,  I  knew  that  she  could  see  into  every 
corner  of  my  heart. 

I  hope  I  shall  not  forget  your  advice  with  regard 
to  my  conduct  to  Mrs.  W.  She  is,  indeed,  very 
kind  and  considerate;  though  I  am  sure  she  has 
much  to  try  her  patience,  in  our  various  dispo- 
sitions. 

I  expected  to  have  a  great  deal  to  tell  you, 
when  I  had  seen  all  my  new  companions:  But 
really  I  am  disappointed  to  find  so  few  out  of  the 
whole  number  with  whom  I  could  form  any  thing 
like  a  friendship.  Many  of  them,  to  be  sure,  are 
such  little  things  that  they  are  quite  out  of  the 
question:  and  as  to  the  rest,  they  are  most  of  them 
so  uninteresting!  There  are,  however,  some  ex- 
ceptions; and  I  must  tell  you,  that  there  are  five 
of  us  great  girls  who  take  the  lead  in  every  thing. 
At  the  top  of  all  is  Grace  Dacre;  and  though,  as 
I  told  you  before,  I  think  I  could  never  be  very 
confidential  with  her,  yet  it  is  impossible  not  to 
admire  and  esteem  her  very  much.  She  is  un- 
commonly clever;  but  so  superior  to  any  littleness 


16  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

and  vanity,  that  although  she  does  every  thing 
best,  no  one  seems  envious  of  her  superiority. 
Next  to  her  is  a  Miss  Raymond:  I  don't  believe 
Mrs.  W.  thinks  she  has  a  great  deal  of  taste;  and 
she  is  certainly  not  what  one  would  call  bright, 
she  is  too  grave  and  solid  for  that;  but  she  has 
such  indefatigable  application  and  industry,  that 
there  seems  to  be  nothing  but  what  she  can  ac- 
complish. Though  not  at  all  ill-natured,  she  is 
very  reserved;  and  perhaps  a  little  high:  she  is 
obliging  to  us  all;  but  not  intimate  with  any  one. 
Fanny  Fielding,  the  next  I  shall  mention,  is,  I 
think,  in  most  things  equal  to  Miss  Raymond; 
but  they  are  completely  different  in  their  disposi- 
tions. There  is  not  one  of  us  who  has  half  so 
much  emulation,  nor  that  applies  with  so  much 
avidity.  You  never  saw  any  thing  like  her  anx- 
iety, when  we  are  at  our  lessons  together.  In 
drawing,  for  instance,  for  which  she  has  certainly 
no  particular  taste,  (indeed  she  acknowledges  that 
she  never  liked  it  much)  yet  the  idea  of  being 
outdone  in  any  thing  is  so  terrible  to  her,  that  she 
makes  the  greatest  exertions  to  excel  in  it.  I 
often  see  her  casting  anxious  glances  at  my  draw- 
ing-book, and  then  redoubling  her  own  efforts:  and 
it  is  the  same  with  music,  Italian,  and  every  thing 
she  does;  she  seems  to  succeed  only  because  she 
is  determined  that  she  will.  Yet  she  is  extremely 
amiable  and  affectionate,  and  most  of  the  girls 
love  her  very  much ;  but  some,  who  are  less  good- 


A  MOTHER  AXD  DAUGHTER.  17 

natured,  take  advantage  of  her  temper,  and  tease 
her  sadly.  The  fourth  on  my  list  is  Phillis  Par- 
ker, a  sharp,  clever  little  thing,  rather  plain  and 
odd-looking;  who,  though  she  is  but  lately  come, 
and  has  had  few  advantages  at  home,  seems 
likely  soon  to  surpass  us  all.  She  is  not  vain  in 
the  least,  but  very  droll;  and  often  says  smart 
witty  things,  which  makes  poor  Fanny  Fielding 
very  angry;  for  she  dreads  being  laughed  at 
beyond  every  thing. 

You  see  I  have  included  myself  in  this  distin- 
guished Jive;  but  I  am  well  aware  that  this  must  be 
attributed  to  my  age,  and  the  great  advantages  I 
have  enjoyed  at  home,  rather  than  to  my  own 
quickness  or  industry;  in  both  which  respects  I 
am  much  surpassed  by  many  who  are  younger 
than  myself.  You  will  be  surprised  to  find  that 
my  friend  Jessy  is  not  one  of  the  number:  the 
reason  is,  that  although  she  is  so  pleasant  and 
affectionate  as  a  friend,  and  has  been,  and  indeed 
continues  to  be,  particularly  kind  to  me,  she  is  not 
so  anxious  about  the  cultivation  of  her  mind  as 
could  be  wished. 

I  had  much  more  to  say,  particularly  in  answer 
to  your  letter;  but  must  now  only  add,  with  kind 
love  to  all,  that  I  am  your  affectionate 

Laura. 


2* 


18  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 


LETTER  IV. 

My  dear  child, 

That  you  are  so  soon  reconciled  to  your  new 
situation  affords  us  great  pleasure ;  though,  indeed, 
it  is  only  as  we  expected.  It  must  be  something 
more  than  a  temporary  separation,  even  from  our 
dearest  friends,  that  can  render  us  permanently 
unhappy,  while  busily  employed  in  any  way,  and 
especially  in  the  important  work  of  self-improve- 
ment. 

We  are  also  gratified  to  learn,  that  you  are 
qualified  to  class  with  the  four  young  ladies,  of 
whom  you  have  given  us  some  description.  How 
essentially  they  differ  from  each  other!  and  prob- 
ably you  will  perceive  a  similar  variation  through- 
out the  school,  as  striking  as  the  diversity  of 
faces.  These  differences  arise  greatly  from  edu- 
cation, and  early  habits;  and  partly  from  consti- 
tution, influenced  by  those  accidental  circumstan- 
ces which  frequently  give  an  early  and  a  marked 
bias  to  the  character.  It  is  natural,  therefore, 
that  you  should  find  tastes  and  dispositions  which 
are  not  at  all  congenial  with  yours:  and  should 
such  dissimilarity  occasionally  produce  a  differ- 
ence from  your  own  opinion,  and  even  an  opposi- 
tion to  your  will,  you  must  not  be  surprised  nor 
offended;  but  should  rather  feel  disposed  to  make 
every  favorable  allowance  and  concession.     This 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  19 

must  ever  become  us,  unless  we  could  assert  our 
own  infallibility,  and  maintain  that  our  education, 
habits,  and  constitution,  have  combined  with  every 
accidental  circumstance  to  form  a  character  ab- 
solutely complete. 

There  are  some  lessons,  besides  those  you  re- 
ceive from  your  masters,  which  you  may  learn 
better  at  school  than  at  home,  from  the  variety 
of  characters  with  whom  you  must  come  in  con- 
tact: few  of  them  but  must  yield  you  some  advan- 
tage, either  from  observation  of  their  temper  and 
conduct,  or  from  the  exercise-  they  afford  to  yours. 
You  have  now,  my  dear  Laura,  a  fair  opportunity 
of  ascertaining  your  natural  temper,  and  how  far 
you  have  acquired  the  command  of  it.  Hitherto, 
all  has  gone  smoothly  with  you;  nurtured  amid 
scenes  of  domestic  peace,  you  are  but  a  novice  in 
the  science  of  human  life;  and  know  little  more 
of  yourself  than  of  others.  Let  one  of  your  first 
attainments  be,  a  feeling  of  kindness  and  benevo- 
lence to  all  around  you,  expressed  by  an  habitual 
courtesy  of  manner:  this  will  ensure  you  a  cordial 
reception  into  society,  and  enlarge  your  sphere  of 
influence  and  usefulness,  which,  with  the  best  in- 
tentions, and  the  strictest  rectitude,  you  might 
otherwise  fail  to  obtain.  Accustom  yourself  to 
make  every  allowance  for  the  imperfections  of 
others,  every  reasonable  sacrifice  to  their  feelings, 
every  effort  for  their  good.  Each  day  will  afford 
you  an  opportunity  of  making  either  an  effort,  a 


20  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

sacrifice,  or  an  allowance.  And  while  thus  em- 
ployed, your  own  character  will  progressively  be- 
come more  amiable,  as,  in  promoting  the  happi- 
ness of  others,  you  are  laying  the  surest  foundation 
for  your  own. 

These  observations  recall  to  my  recollection  the 
pleasing  image  of  Anna  Parker,  my  beloved  com- 
panion at  school.  Plain  in  her  person  and  in  her 
dress,  she  had  no  ambition  to  attract  notice  by 
external  blandishments:  and  whilst  she  had  high- 
er aims  than  most,  she  was  one  of  the  last  in  the 
school  on  whom  a  stranger  would  have  bestowed 
observation — one  of  the  last  to  make  any  effort  to 
invite  it. 

While  to  perform  her  own  task  well  was  her 
primary  object,  she  was  willing,  at  any  time,  to 
suspend  it  to  do  a  kind  office  for  another.  If  any 
of  her  companions,  through  negligence  or  acci- 
dent, needed  assistance,  she  was  ever  ready  and 
at  hand:  her  work-bag  was  constantly  open  to  all 
whose  silk  or  crewels  were  mislaid  or  lost.  Tales 
she  would  never  tell  of  any;  and  none  could  tell 
tales  of  her.  In  school-cabals  and  mischief  her 
name  was  never  mentioned:  suspicion  dared  not 
glance  at  her.  And  while  divisions  and  conten- 
tions were  continually  arising  among  the  rest, 
those  who  could  unite  in  nothing  else  cordially 
agreed  in  admiring  and  loving  Anna  Parker.  It 
would  be  needless  to  say  that  she  was  beloved  by 
her  governess,  who  used  continually  to  refer  us  to 
her,  as  a  pattern  for  our  imitation. 


A   MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  21 

You  must  not,  however,  expect  to  find  schools 
peopled  with  such  characters;  nor  allow  yourself 
to  feel  chagrin  and  disappointment  that  it  is  not 
so.  Recollect  your  father's  remark,  when  we 
were  so  annoyed  by  the  flies  during  our  morning's 
walk: — That  as  we  must  not  expect  them  to  sus- 
pend their  gambols,  and  obediently  divide  to  the 
right  and  left  till  we  had  passed,  so  much  less  ought 
we  to  require  our  fellow  creatures  to  give  way  to 
our  opinions,  to  lay  aside  their  prejudices,  and  to 
regulate  their  conduct  in  conformity  to  ours.  The 
graces  of  meekness  and  forbearance  are  exhibited 
in  their  perfection,  by  our  divine  Teacher.  He 
says,  "  Learn  of  me,  for  I  am  meek  and  lowly  in 
heart:" — and  in  proportion  as  your  love  to  Him 
is  excited,  you  will  be  disposed  to  keep  this,  and 
all  His  commandments. 

I  think  you  mentioned  two  or  three  little  ones 
among  you.  These  I  would  particularly  recom- 
mend to  your  attention;  as,  notwithstanding  the 
well-known  tenderness  of  their  governess,  they 
must  naturally  miss  the  fostering  care  of  their 
mothers,  in  a  much  greater  degree  than  such 
girls  as  you  can  or  ought  to  do.  I  trust  there  are 
no  ladies  in  your  school  who  would  oppress  them; 
especially  as  the  period  of  that  tender  age  is  too 
recent  for  any  of  them  to  have  forgotton  the  feel- 
ings inseparable  from  it. 

I  must  now  tell  you — but  what  do  I  see — the 
end  of   my  paper!    so    I    must  leave   the    many 


22  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

things  I  had  to  say,  unsaid;  like  some  who  find 
themselves  at  the  verge  of  life,  with  many  of  their 
plans  and  schemes  unaccomplished;  and  if,  above 
all,  the  grand  end  and  design  of  their  being  has 
been  neglected,  how  dismal  will  their  case  be! 
Should  they  think  of  crowding  the  business  of 
their  immortal  interests  into  the  bottom  of  the 
page,  just  as  I  do  the  conclusion  of  my  epistle, 
they  may  not  succeed  so  well,  for  I  find  I  have 
room  to  subscribe  myself, 

your  affectionate  Mother. 


LETTER  V. 


My  dear  Mother, 

Some  parts  of  your  last  letter  were  as  applica- 
ble and  seasonable,  as  if  you  had  been  acquainted 
with  my  particular  circumstances  at  the  time.  If 
I  had  leisure,  I  might  write  very  often,  to  ask  your 
advice  about  something  that  occurs  amongst  us, 
in  which  I  am  at  a  loss  how  to  act:  and  yet  if  I 
were  carefully  to  apply  your  general  advice  to 
these  particular  cases,  I  believe  I  should  seldom 
do  wrong. 

I  find  it  very  true  that  there  are  pains  in  all  our 
pleasures,  even  in  friendship,  where  I  had  least 
expected   to   find   them.     Jessy    Cooke   thinks  I 


A   MOTHER   AND    DAUGHTER.  23 

have  treated  her  unkindly,  which  I  am  sure  was 
the  farthest  from  my  intention;  and  the  more  I 
think  of  what  has  passed,  the  more  I  am  inclined 
to  believe  that  I  have  done  nothing  inconsistent 
with  true  friendship.  I  now  suspect  that  her 
views  of  it  are  not  quite  right;  though  I  confess 
they  appeared,  at  first,  very  congenial  with  my 
own,  and  gave  me  a  high  idea  of  her  sensibility. 
She  will  not  allow  it  possible  to  have  two  friends, 
especially  two  confidants;  and  she  has  no  idea  of 
friendship  without  secrets.  She  has  told  me  a 
great  many  of  hers,  certainly ;  and  was  hurt  be- 
cause I  did  not  return  her  confidence.  When 
she  complained  of  it,  I  said  what  was  very  true, 
that,  really,  I  had  no  secrets  that  I  knew  of;  upon 
which  she  began  laughing  at  me,  and  I  felt  very 
much  mortified,  (which  was  foolish,  I  know)  and 
tried  to  recollect  something  to  tell  her,  but  I 
could  think  of  nothing  in  the  world  except  a  silly 
little  affair  that  once  happened  between  Kitty  and 
me,  which  I  knew  she  would  think  it  childish  to 
repeat.  I  therefore  only  added,  "  none,  at  least, 
that  I  have  not  told  mamma."  "  Told  your 
mamma!  well,  that  is  curious,  indeed!"  said  she; 
11  why,  I  never  told  mamma  a  secret  in  my  life; 
she  is  the  last  person  in  the  world  I  should  think 
of  saying  any  thing  particular  to." 

We  were  at  this  time  walking  arm  in  arm,  up 
and  down  the  long  gravel  walk.  Grace  Dacre 
was  there  also,  reading  to  herself.     Every  time 


24  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

we  passed,  Jessy  made  a  point  of  whispering  very 
low,  even  when  we  were  saying  nothing  that  it 
would  at  all  have  signified  for  her  to  overhear. 
At  last,  as  she  was  passing  us,  she  looked  off  her 
book,  saying,  with  a  good-natured  smile,  "  Take 
care,  Laura!, take  care!  or  I  shall  hear  all  your 
secrets."  I  was  just  then  feeling  vexed  and  dis- 
satisfied both  with  Jessy  and  myself,  and  could 
not  help  replying,  "  O,  it  was  no  secret,  I  assure 
you;  I  was  just  then  saying  that  I  have  none, 
and  Jessy  thinks  me  a  child  for  it." — "  I  am  glad 
of  that,"  said  Grace:  "  do  you  know  now  I  am 
quite  pleased  to  hear  you  say  so;  I  am  a  school- 
girl myself,  to  be  sure,  but  I  do  dislike  school- 
girl's secrets;  come,  let  us  have  done  with  them, 
and  walk  together;"  and  with  that  she  laid  hold 
of  my  arm.  This  was  all  that  passed,  as  well  as  I 
can  remember;  but  poor  Jessy  took  such  offence, 
you  have  no  idea.  She  left  us  instantly,  only 
saying  that  she  had  walked  till  she  was  tired;  and 
there  were  Grace  and  I  left  alone  together  for  the 
first  time  in  our  lives,  for  Jessy  would  never  suf- 
fer me  to  walk  with  her  before,  because  she  said 
I  was  her  friend.  Grace  immediately  changed 
the  conversation;  I  knew  she  was  too  generous  to 
say  a  word  to  Jessy's  disadvantage.  It  was,  mam- 
ma, just  such  a  conversation  as  I  think  you  would 
have  listened  to  with  pleasure.  Grace  is  almost 
two  years  older  than  Jessy  and  I;  and  yet  she 
loves  to  talk  on  subjects,  and  is  interested  about 


A  MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  25 

things,  that  Jessy  thinks  quite  childish.  I  dread- 
ed seeing  her  again,  expecting  she  would  re- 
proach me  with  unkindness;  but  that  is  not  her 
way:  she  has  avoided  me  ever  since,  and  has  not 
allowed  me  any  opportunity  to  explain  myself; 
only  when  we  meet,  putting  on  a  cool,  patient 
look,  like  a  person  that  has  been  injured:  and  if 
she  is  asked  where  I  am,  or  any  quest  in  about 
me,  she  answers  in  this  way. — M  I  don  t  know, 
indeed:  Miss  Dacre  can  tell  you,  I  dare  say.''  I 
am  very  much  afraid  she  is  of  a  mean,  jealous 
temper,  and  will  never  be  reconciled  on  any  other 
terms  than  my  breaking  completely  with  Grace, 
which  I  should  be  extremely  unwilling  to  do, 
because  she  is  just  such  a  friend  as  I  want.  I 
believe,  mamma,  you  would  think  her  truly  seri- 
ous. Last  Sunday  evening  we  had  a  delightful 
walk  together  in  the  garden.  She  soon  turned  the 
conversation  to  religious  subjects.  O.  it  \ 
different  to  the  (Wish  chats  I  have  had  there 
sometimes  with  others!  When  I  said  how  difficult 
I  found  it,  among  so  many  pursuits,  and  so  many 
companions,  to  rix  my  thought!  ^ings, 

she  assured  me  that  she  felt  the  same:  but  added, 
that  she  was  sure  our  temptations  to  delay,  and  to 
neglect  religion,  were  fewer  and  weaker  now, 
than  they  would  be  by  and  by.  "  It  will,  I  have 
no  doubt,'*  she  said,  {;  be  far  more  difficult  to  give 
our  hearts  to  God,  and  to  give  up  the  world  when 
we  leave  school,  than  it  is  now:  and  if  we  wait  till 
vol.  v.  3 


26  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

it  seems  quite  pleasant  and  easy  to  do,  it  will  never 
be  done.  Besides,  I  often  think  of  those  lines  in 
the  little  hymn  which  I  am  not  ashamed  of  quoting 
even  now, 

'  'T  will  please  us  to  look  back  and  see 
That  our  whole  lives  were  thine.'  " 

You  may  remember,  dear  mother,  how  suitable 
the  conclusion  of  your  last  letter  was  to  our  con- 
versation: I  could  not  help  reading  it  to  Grace 
who,  when  I  had  done  so,  thanked  me,  and  said, 
with  the  tears  in  her  eyes,  that  she  had  lost  her 
mother.  I  know  you  will  rejoice  that  I  am  likely 
to  gain  such  a  friend:  but  yet  I  am  very  sorry 
about  poor  Jessy. 

Your  affectionate 

Laura. 


LETTER  VI. 

It  is  no  small  gratification  to  me,  to  hold  con- 
verse with  you,  my  beloved  child;  especially,  as 
I  find  the  hints  I  suggest  are  applied  to  the  pur- 
poses for  which  they  are  intended;  and  that,  as  oc- 
casions arise,  your  general  conduct  is  likely  to  be 
regulated  by  a  parent's  care,  though  not  immedi- 
ately under  her  eye. 

That  a  degree  of  mutual  disappointment  should 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  27 

arise  between  your  new  friend,  Jessy  Cooke,  and 
yourself,  is  not  very  surprising;  nor,  when  the 
lesson  it  conveys  is  duly  considered,  is  it  much  to 
be  regretted.  It  would  be  needless,  at  present,  to 
expatiate  on  this  young  lady's  character;  for  we 
are  not  yet  sufficiently  acquainted  with  it,  to  have 
any  decided  opinion;  and  till  we  have,  we  had 
better  suspend  our  animadversions.  When  time 
shall  have  enabled  you  to  form  a  more  accurate 
estimate,  she  will  find  her  proper  level  in  your 
esteem.  Probably,  were  you  acquainted  with  the 
circumstances  of  her  childhood — could  you  per- 
ceive whence  her  mistaken  notions  originate — 
you  would  pity,  rather  than  blame  her.  She  may 
not  have  been  under  the  care  of  her  parents  at 
that  important  season,  when  first  the  "  young 
idea"  begins  "  to  shoot."  Her  mother  may 
have  been  prevented  from  attending  to  the  mental 
culture  of  her  family,  by — by  something,  which  to 
her,  at  least,  may  have  appeared  of  more  import- 
ance. However  this  may  be,  let  not  the  intimacy 
you  so  hastily  formed,  as  suddenly  subside, — 
though  it  is,  indeed,  but  the  common  fate  of  these 
warm  first-sight  friendships;  nor  by  any  thing  in 
your  look  and  manner,  attempt  to  retaliate  the  un- 
kindness  of  hers,  which  would  be  quite  as  unjus- 
tifiable as  to  return  railing  for  railing.  There  is 
no  species  of  warfare  more  disingenuous  than 
this:  it  is  annoying  others,  without  allowing  them 
the  opportunity  of  defending  themselves:  and  it  is 


28  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

capable  of  inflicting  as  severe  a  smart,  as  more 
open  and  direct  accusations.  Rather  endeavor, 
my  love,  to  conciliate  your  friend  by  persevering 
kindness  and  good  humor.  It  may,  perhaps,  be 
in  your  power,  and  more  especially  in  Miss  Da- 
cre's,  who  is  still  older,  to  render  her  an  essential 
service,  by  endeavoring  to  improve  her  character. 
Not  that  I  should  imagine  either  of  you  equal  to 
the  task  of  educating  your  school-fellows — having, 
at  present,  too  much  to  do  in  that  way  for  your- 
selves: your  lessons,  at  least,  will  be  more  suita- 
bly and  effectually  dispensed  by  example  than  by 
precept. 

As  Miss  Jessy  is  so  fond  of  secrets,  she  might 
occasionally  be  gratified  by  the  perusal  of  certain 
passages  in  our  correspondence:  at  least  it  would 
prevent  the  appearance  of  reserve;  and  might 
have  other  advantages.  Perhaps,  when  she  per- 
ceives on  what  terms  you  are  with  your  mother, 
and  sees  what  good  friends  a  mother  and  daugh- 
ter may  be,  she  may  be  disposed  to  cultivate  a 
more  amiable  frankness  with  hers. 

I  am  pleased  at  the  increasing  intimacy  between 
you  and  Miss  Dacre,  most  especially,  because 
she  is  one  with  whom  you  can  converse  on  this 
most  interesting  subject.  But  is  there  only  one 
in  your  school  who  "remembers  her  Creator  in  the 
days  of  her  youth?"  What!  only  one  "inquiring 
the  way  to  Zion,  with  her  face  thitherward  ?  " 
Only  one  who  finds  Wisdom's  ways  to  be  "ways 


A   MOTHER    AND  DAUGHTER,  29 

of  pleasantness :  '''  While  many  of  your  number, 
in  their  restless  desires  after  earthly  things,  may 
be  eagerly  crying,  '  who  will  show  us  any  good:" 
— I  would  hope  that  there  are  a  few,  at  least,  sin- 
cerely disposed  to  say,  ';  Lord,  lift  thou  up  the 
light  of  thy  countenance  upon 

Walking    through    the    town    this    morning,    I 
passed  a  door  where  -sing  in   to 

make    (as   they  imagined  s,  of 

some  travelling  people,  v  ;s  to  be  selling 

their  goods  at  a  low  price.     I  feared  ti 
be  disappointed  in  tl  :   at  all  i 

they  may  be'  cc 

nor  any  thing  price, 

either  cheap  or  "the  moth  will  not 

corrupt."    or    time   <  But   are  there  not 

commodities  pri  which  will 

exceed  expectation,  and  which  can  be  injured 
neither  nor  accid  I  have  we  not 

seen  multitudes    pass  as    though 

they  heard  it  not? — i£  IT<  that  thirst- 

eth,   come  and  without 

price,"  has  little  effect  «  -e  only 

this  world  for  ti  offers 

are  adapted  to   i  i   crea- 

ture;  although  they  proffer  food  I  h,  rai- 

ment to  cover,  jewels  to  adorn,  fruits  and  flowers 
to  refresh,  balm  to  heal,  and  cordials  to  revive; 
and  these  are  all  freely  offered,  though  purchased 
not  with    corruptible    silver    and    gold.     What   a 


30  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

happiness  it  is,  my  dear  Laura,  that  this  language 
is  not  unintelligible  to  you!  From  a  child  \jou 
have  been  taught  the  Holy  Scriptures.  Many 
there  are,  even  in  this  Christian  land,  who  are  as 
ignoiant  of  the  truth  as  the  poor  heathens  of  whom 
we  hear  so  much.  May  you,  my  child,  who  have 
"  line  upon  line,  and  precept  upon  precept,"  grow 
in  grace  as  well  as  in  wisdom  and  stature;  that 
so  you  may  be  in  favor  with  God,  as  well  as  with 
your  fellow  creature?. 

But  remember,  that  it  is  not  by  reading  nor 
hearing  alone,  that  you  must  expect  these  effects 
to  follow.  It  is  only  when  reflection  and  prayer 
accompany  those  means,  that  we  can  hope  the 
good  seed  will  take  root  and  grow.  David,  you 
know,  meditated  much  on  the  word  of  God,  and 
4 '  hid  it  in  his  heart,"  for  this  reason,  "that  he 
might  not  sin  against  him."  And  be  assured,  my 
dear  child,  that  you  will  find  no  antidote  so  effec- 
tual against  the  sins  and  follies  of  your  age. 

Believe  me 

your  affectionate  Mother. 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  31 


LETTER  VII. 


My  dear  Mother, 

I  am  afraid  sometimes  you  will  be  quite  tired 
with  the  relation  of  my  school  adventures;  in 
which  you  cannot  possibly  be  so  much  interested 
as  I  am.  But  when  I  remember  the  kindness 
with  which  you  have  always  attended  to  my  little 
affairs,  in  the  midst  of  your  own  important  ones,  I 
feel  assured  that  you  will  receive  my  rambling 
epistles  with  the  same  indulgence. 

Since  I  wrote  last,  we  have  had  an  addition  to 
our  number:  a  Miss  Biggins.    Oh,  mamma!  such 

DO  ' 

a  curiosity!  She  is  the  only  child  of  a  very  rich 
man,  who  they  say  has  made  his  fortune  suddenly. 
Although  she  is  as  old  as  I  am,  she  has  had  no 
kind  of  education  before;  so  that  it  would  be  very 
wrong  to  laugh  at  her;  especially  as  she  is  ex- 
tremely good-natured  and  obliging,  and  very  de- 
sirous to  improve.  But  really  it  is  difficult  to 
help  it  sometimes,  there  is  something  so  droll  in 
her  look  and  manner.  She  is  very  short,  fat,  and 
rosy;  and  stutters  a  little,  particularly  when  she 
is  either  puzzled  or  angry.  Phillis  Parker  can 
mimic  her  exactly;  but,  I  do  assure  you,  I  have 
only  heard  her  do  it  once,  and  then  she  was  very 
angry  with  herself  afterwards. 

Some  days  ago,  one  of  the  girls  was  telling  us 
of  a  custom  at  the  school  she  has  lately  left,  (which 


32  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

I  think  from  her  manner  of  expressing  herself 
must  have  been  a  very  different  one  from  this). 
They  used,  she  said,  once  a  week,  to  write 
thoughts:  that  is,  some  short  sentence,  "out  of 
their  own  heads,"  as  she  called  it,  which  was  af- 
terwards submitted  to  the  governess's  inspection. 
"  But,  la!"  said  she,  "  we  do  nothing  of  that  sort 
at  this  school:  I  never  saw  such  a  school  in  my 
life!"  Several  of  us  agreed  that  we  should  like 
very  well  to  try  our  talents  at  thought-making,  if 
Mrs.  W.  approved  of  it;  at  which  she  was  much 
pleased,  and  said,  "  Dacre,  dear!  do  you  ask  her  if 
we  may!"  Mrs.  W.  very  readily  consented  to  our 
making  the  attempt;  so  we  all  set  about  it,  and 
could  think  of  nothing  but  our  thoughts  all  the 
week.  I  should  have  told  you,  that  poor  Miss 
Biggins,  when  it  was  first  proposed,  came  up  to 
Grace  and  me  with  such  a  queer  puzzled  face, 
saying, — "  A  thought!  dear,  I  can  't  do  it,  I  5m 
sure! — what  sort  of  a  thought?  —  what  do  they 
mean,  I  wonder!"  "  Why,  think  of  something, 
and  that  will  be  a  thought,  won't  it?"  said  Phillis 
Parker.  Grace,  however,  kindly  endeavored  to 
explain  it  to  her,  by  an  example:  upon  which 
some  one  cried  out,  "That  is  not  fair!  there's 
Grace  Dacre  helping  Miss  Biggins  to  write  her 
thought."  To  which  Miss  Biggins  replied,  with 
more  spirit  than  usual,  "  Xo,  but  she  is  not, 
though;  if  I  can  't  make  one  myself,  I  won't  make 
any  at  all." 


A  MOTHER  AXD  DAUGHTER.  33 

This  was  the  very  thing,  as  you  may  suppose, 
to  excite  Fanny  Fielding's  ambition.  Grace  and 
I  found  her  one  evening  scribbling  away  upon  her 
slate,  as  intently  as  if  her  welfare  for  life  depend- 
ed upon  her  succeeding.  She  looked  up  at  us 
with  her  worried,  anxious  face;  and  said,  "  I 
heartily  wish  this  had  never  been  thought  of:  it 
will  be  nothing  but  vexation  to  me,  I  foresee. 
Mine,  I  know,  of  the  whole  number,  will  be  the 
very  worst."  £C  That  is  very  unlikely  indeed," 
said  Grace;  "  perhaps  you  only  mean  that  you 
are  afraid,  that,  of  the  whole  number,  it  will  not 
be  the  very  best."  "  Nay,  that  I  am  quite  cer- 
tain of,"  said  'Fanny.  "  Well,"  said  Grace, 
f*  and  suppose  it  is  noty  "  Suppose  it  is  not! 
Really,  Grace,"  said  she,  "  I  do  admire  to  hear 
you  ask  that  question  so  coolly!  You  that  are 
sure  of  writing  a  good  one ;  it  is  easy  enough  to  be 
so  calm  and  philosophical  about  it."  "  But  I  am 
not  at  all  sure  of  writing  a  good  one,  "said  Grace; 
"  indeed  I  am  pretty  sure  I  shall  not:  yet,  I  con- 
fess, I  don't  feel  very  anxious  about  it;  and  per- 
haps that  gives  me  some  chance  of  success." 
"  Well,  now,"  said  Fanny,  "  suppose  you  were 
— (I  know  you  will  not) — but  suppose  you  were  to 
write  a  very  poor  one ;  just  tell  me  if  you  would 
not  feel  very  much  mortified?"  "  Perhaps  I 
might,"  said  Grace;  "  but  then  I  should  be  more 
mortified  afterwards,  for  being  very  much  morti- 
fied,  than   for  having   written  a   poor  thought." 


34  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

cf  Well,  well,  Jam  no  stoic,  nor  ever  shall  be," 
said  Fanny;  "so.  do  tell  me,  now,  what  I  shall 
write  about?"  "  About  my  stoical  philosophy,  and 
welcome,  if  you  please,"  said  Grace,  laughing; 
and  so  we  left  her. 

For  my  own  part,  I  must  confess,  I  had  no  idea 
before  how  difficult  it  is  to  think.  I  could,  to  be 
sure,  have  written  half  a  hundred  sentences^piece- 
meal  from  books;  but  to  invent  any  thing  of  one's 
own,  not  exactly  common-place,  you  know,  is  a 
very  different  kind  of  thing. 

Well,  mamma,  this  evening  was  the  time  fixed 
for  Mrs.  W.  to  see  them.  Our  slips  of  paper 
were  placed  before  her,  and  she  read  them  aloud, 
in  their  turns.  What  diverted  me  most  was,  to 
watch  the  girls  while  their  own  thoughts  were  be- 
ing read.  Some  laughed,  some  colored,  some 
jogged  their  neighbors'  elbows.  Poor  Fanny 
Fielding  looked  quite  pale  all  the  time.  I  am 
afraid  it  would  not  amuse  you  much,  if  I  were  to 
transcribe  our  fine  thoughts  for  your  inspection. 
Some  were  not  very  original,  certainly:  for  in- 
stance,— "Virtue  and  vice  are  very  opposite 
qualities." — "  Time  flies  swiftly." — "  How  amia- 
ble is  virtue!"  &c.  But  what  do  you  imagine 
Phillis  Parker's  was? — just  like  her!  "  There  is 
no  having  thoughts  without  thinking."  But  I  must 
tell  you  poor  Miss  Biggins's,  because  it  passed 
off  so  much  better  than  could  be  expected:  it  was 
this—"  Them  that  hasn't  any  patience,  can  never 


A  MOTHER  AXD  DAUGHTER.  35 

have  no  learning."  Oh,  mamma!  the  moment  it 
was  read,  the  whole  school  burst  out  a-laughing; 
and  she,  poor  girl!  stood  covered  with  confusion. 
There  was  not  one  who  did  not  laugh  (for  I  did, 
I  confess),  except  Grace  Dacre.  But  Mrs.  TY\, 
in  her  commanding  way,  put  a  stop  to  it  by  say- 
ing, that,  in  her  opinion,  this,  in  point  of  senti- 
ment, was  one  of  the  best  sentences  she  had  read: 
its  incorrectness,  she  observed,  was  merely  inci- 
dental; a  few  weeks'  attention  to  Murray  would 
enable  her  to  rectify  those  mistakes. 

The  tears  overflowed  poor  Miss  Biggins's  eyes 
as  Mrs.  W.  said  this.  To  turn  our  attention  from 
her,  I  suppose,  Mrs.  W.  then  began  to  look  over 
some  of  our  papers  again;  and  said,  smiling,  "  As 
to  these  thoughts  of  you  elder  ones,  perhaps  I 
might  give  this  general  opinion:  that  Grace  Da- 
cre 5s  is  the  most  acute;  Miss  Raymond's  the  most 
correct;  Fanny  Fielding's  the  most  ornamented; 
Laura's,  the  most  simple ;  Phillis's,  the  most  origi- 
nal;  and  Miss  Biggins's,  the  most  useful.'" 

With  this  sentence  we  were  dismissed;  and  so 
it  has  ended  very  well:  though  I  do  not  think 
Fanny  is  quite  satisfied  with  hers;  for  she  has 
been  teasing  Grace,  and  me,  too,  all  the  time  I 
have  been  writing,  to  know  what  we  supposed 
Mrs.  W.  exactly  meant  by  ornamented. 

I  am  sorry  to  see  that  I  have  filled  my  whole 
letter  with  this  silly  affair.  It  has,  however, 
taught  me  one  thing;   and  that  is,  how  much  one 


36  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

may  say  and  write  without  thinking:  since  it  took 
me  more  time  to  write  a  single  sentence  with  a 
thought  in  it,  than  the  longest  letter  I  have  ever 
sent  you.  Farewell,  dear  mamma!  pray  excuse 
all  the  faults  and  thoughtlessness  of  your 

Laura. 


LETTER  VIII. 

My  dear  Laura, 

Far  from  being  wearied  with  your  school  anec- 
dotes, I  feel  much  interested  in  them;  as  they 
afford  me  an  opportunity,  both  of  watching  the 
unfoldings  of  your  character,  and  of  correcting 
what  I  may  deem  exceptionable  in  your  views  or 
your  conduct,  as  occurrences  arise.  Besides,  my 
dear,  I  am  your  mother. 

I  am  disposed  to  congratulate  you  on  the  addi- 
tion made  to  your  number  in  Miss  Biggins:  and 
hope  it  will  prove  mutually  advantageous.  I  say 
muiuaUit,  because,  whatever  her  deficiencies  may 
be,  since  she  is  <:  good-natured,  obliging,  and 
very  desirous  to  improve,"  her  example  may  be 
useful  to  the  most  accomplished  among  you.  For 
these  are  sterling  qualities,  in  which,  sometimes, 
the  most  accomplished  are  deficient. 


A   MOTHER  AXD   DAUGHTER.  37 

It  is  such  a  little  time  since  you  entered  that 
school-room,  a  stranger — since  yeu  sat  forlorn  in 
the  window-seat,  the  object  of  your  school-fel- 
lows' curiosity — that  you  are  well  qualified  to 
sympathize  with  a  new-comer.  And  although 
you  are  neither  fat  nor  rosy,  it  is  probable  that 
even  you  might  furnish  matter  for  ridicule,  by 
some  unconscious  peculiarity  in  your  manner  or 
appearance.  Indeed,  when  people  are  so  dispos- 
ed, they  will  never  be  at  a  loss  for  subjects  on 
which  to  exercise  this  foolish  propensity:  just  as 
a  kitten  sports  with  every  thing  that  comes  in  her 
way,  not  because  it  is  appropriate,  but  because 
she  is  playful.  In  Miss  Biggins's  being  "  short, 
fat,  and  rosy,"  there  is,  at  least,  no  crime:  and 
as  the  impediment  in  her  speech  is  decidedly  a 
misfortune,  I  hope  your  friend  Phillis  will  prove 
that  she  was  really  angry  with  herself,  by  never 
repeating  the  unkindness  of  mimicking  it. 

I  was  going  to  say  that  had  I  been  present  when 
Miss  Bijigins's  thought  was  read,  I  mi^ht  have 
joined  in  the  laugh;  though  it  would  not  have  been 
at  her  expense.  I  might  have  laughed,  my  dear 
Laura,  to  see  a  number  of  young  ladies,  in  the 
very  act  of  exercising  their  thoughts,  affording 
such  a  proof  of  its  being  to  them  a  novel  employ- 
ment, by  the  reception  which  they  gave  to  the 
first  efforts  of  an  uninstructed  girl,  and  a  stran- 
ger. Yet  I  rather  think  I  should  have  felt  as 
Mrs.  W.  did.  None  are  just  objects  of  ridicule 
vol.  v.  4 


38  LRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

for  being  destitute  of  that  which  they  have  had 
no  means  of  acquiring.  A  ploughman,  seated  at 
a  nobleman's  table,  would  most  probably  excite 
it;  but  it  would  be  misplaced;  because  elegance 
of  manners  is  no  more  to  be  expected  in  him,  than 
awkwardness  in  a  man  of  polite  education.  In- 
deed, my  dear,  it  is  difficult  to  select  a  fit  object 
for  ridicule:  certainly  not  ignorance;  for  even 
when  it  arises  from  inattention  and  indolence,  it 
is  rather  to  be  lamented  than  laughed  at:  nor  is 
its  aspect  ludicrous,  but  rather  pitiable,  when  it  is 
the  involuntary  effect  of  circumstances.  As  the 
habit  of  thinking  becomes  more  frequent,  I  am 
persuaded  that  you  will  be  so  seriously  occupied 
in  remedying  your  own  deficiencies,  as  to  feel 
little  inclination  to  smile  at  those  of  others. 

When  I  called  on  our  poor  neighbor  Woodly 
the  other  day,  intending  to  present  him  with  a 
Bible,  I  was  greatly  disappointed  to  find  that 
neither  husband  nor  wife  could  read.  In  this  cir- 
cumstance, however,  we  could  discern  nothing  to 
excite  a  smile ;  although  the  acknowledgement, 
that  they  did  not  know  their  letters,  was  very  in- 
correctly expressed.  Now  Miss  Biggins  is  in  a 
similar  predicament;  and  so  are  you,  and  so  am  I, 
in  a  certain  degree,  while  there  yet  remains  any 
thing  which  it  is  desirable  for  us  to  know,  but 
which  we  have  not  had  the  opportunity  of  learn- 
ing. I  rejoice  that  this  young  lady,  by  her 
change  of  circumstances,  will  now  have  the  means 


A  MOTHER  AND   DAUGHTER.  39 

of  improvement:  thus  the  superiority  afforded  by 
fortune  becomes  of  real  value.  Opulence  is  the 
soil  in  which  many  a  fair  floweret  unfolds,  which 
could  otherwise  never  expand  and  diffuse  its  fra- 
grance. It  is  of  great  importance  that  young 
persons  should  form  an  accurate  estimate  of  the 
value  of  wealth.  They  cannot  too  early  learn, 
that  its  chief  excellence  consists  in  affording  the 
means  of  intellectual  improvement,  of  assisting 
the  necessitous,  and  of  increasing  the  happiness 
of  all  within  their  sphere.  I  would  hope,  there- 
fore, my  dear,  that  your  attachment  to  your  young 
friends  may  never  be  proportioned  to  the  number 
of  thousands  they  may  inherit;  but  to  the  influ- 
ence such  advantages  have  upon  their  characters. 
Learn  to  distinguish,  and  to  respect  true  merit, 
whether  in  situations  above  or  beneath  you. 

As  the  want  of  knowledge  exposes  the  most 
amiable  to  ridicule,  as  well  as  to  many  more  seri- 
ous disadvantages,  those  on  whom  Providence  has 
smiled  in  this  respect  have  great  cause  for  thank- 
fulness. And  while  they  are  diligent  in  improv- 
ing their  own  privileges,  they  will  be  equally 
zealous  in  assisting  others  who  are  destitute  of 
them. 

Those  who  feel  thinking  to  be  so  very  laborious 
will  find,  that  in  proportion  to  their  perseverance, 
the  mind  will  attain  vigor;  and  mental  exercises 
will  become  more  facile  and  delightful.  How 
much  does  our  own  happiness,  and  that  of  others, 


40  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

depend  upon  the  right  exercise  of  our  thinking 
powers!  May  you,  my  Laura,  be  able  to  say  with 
the  Psalmist,  "  I  hate  vain  thoughts,  but  thy  law 
do  I  love."  "  In  the  multitude  of  my  thoughts 
within  me,  thy  comforts  delight  my  soul."  This, 
above  all  other  things,  is  the  earnest  hope  of 

your  affectionate  Mother. 


LETTER  IX 

Dear  Mamma, 

I  write  rather  sooner  than  usual,  in  order  to 
request  you  to  execute  a  few  little  commissions 
forme,  of  which  I  subjoin  the  list.  But  should 
you  think  the  first  unnecessary,  I  shall  be  quite 
contented  to  do  without  it ;  although  they  are  very 
generally  worn  here,  and  certainly  look  very  pret- 
ty; and  mine  is  getting  rather  shabby.  (Grace 
has  one.) 

There  is,  I  know,  some  danger  of  paying  too 
much  attention  to  dress,  among  so  many  girls> 
some  of  whom  think  of  little  else.  And  yet  it 
does  tend  in  a  great  degree  to  check  the  love  of 
it,  to  observe,  that  those  are  generally  the  most 
dressy  who  have  least  sense;  and  that  those  who 
are  so  much  engrossed  by  it  are  vulgar  in  their 


A    MOTHER  AND    DAUGHTER.  41 

minds,  if  not  in  their  manners.  Poor  Miss  Big- 
gins came  loaded  with  expensive  finery;  while 
Grace  Dacre  and  Miss  Raymond,  who  have  the 
highest  connexions  of  any  in  the  school,  are  the 
plainest  dressed  of  any  of  us.  It  was  quite  divert- 
ing to  see  the  unfeigned  astonishment  of  some  of 
those  dressy  girls,  when  Mrs.  W.  assured  them 
that  Grace  and  Miss  Raymond  dressed  as  they 
did,  not  from  necessity,  but  choice:  as  they  were 
both  intrusted  with  such  an  ample  allowance,  as 
would  enable  them,  if  they  pleased,  to  be  the  gay- 
est of  any  in  the  school.  That  any  body  should 
dress  plainly  who  could  afford  to  be  fine,  seemed 
quite  beyond  their  comprehension. 

When  I  once  told  Mrs.  W.  that  Grace  had 
cured  me  of  the  love  of  dress,  she  bade  me  beware 
of  deceiving  myself.  For,  she  said,  that  if  my 
determination  arose  merely  from  the  common  pro- 
pensity to  imitate  those  we  love, — if  my  next 
friend  happened  to  be  fond  of  dress,  I  should  soon 
follow  her  example  also.  To  that  I  replied,  that 
I  was  sure  I  never  should  or  could  choose  for  a 
friend  one  who  was  very  fond  of  dress.  At  which 
she  smiled,  and  said  that  I  did  not  yet  know  what 
I  should  or  could  do:  and  added,  that  strange  as  I 
might  think  it,  and  strange  as  it  was,  she  had 
known  a  few  young  persons,  (to  say  nothing  of 
old  ones)  of  superior  sense,  taste,  and  intelligence, 
and  even,  she  believed,  of  sincere  piety,  and  such 
as  I  might  be  proud  to  call  my  friends,  who  yet 
4* 


42  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

bestowed  a  very  improper  share  of  their  time  and 
attention  on  dress,  and  betrayed  an  inordinate 
interest  in  it.  She  regarded  it,  indeed,  as  a 
pitiable  weakness,  and  lamentable  inconsistency  in 
their  characters;  but  so  it  was;  and,  therefore, 
she  advised  me  to  form  my  principles  and  con- 
duct, in  tiiis  respect,  on  some  more  substantial 
foundation  than  the  practice  of  an  amiable  friend. 
She  then  endeavored  to  convince  me,  that  true 
taste,  no  less  than  right  principle,  forbids  excess 
of  ornament,  and  excessive  thought  about  it.  How 
disagreeable  it  is  to  see  a  showy  company,  every 
one  of  which  has  evidently  done  her  utmost! 
One's  eves  are  perfectly  fatigued  with  wandering 
from  one  fine  thing  to  another.  And  yet,  I  must 
confess,  that  I  sometimes  feel  the  very  same 
propensity  myself;  only  I  hope  that  time,  and 
thought,  and  good  advice,  and  the  example  of 
those  I  most  respect  and  admire,  will  cure  it. 

Mrs.  W.  allows  that  there  may  be  as  much 
pride  in  extreme  plainness,  as  in  excessive  atten- 
tion to  dress,  —  and  more  affectation;  and  she 
thinks  there  is  a  proper  degree  of  regard  to  our 
outward  appearance,  in  which  every  one  must  be 
regulated  by  their  own  circumstances,  connexions, 
and  conscience.  But,  she  says,  there  ought  to  be 
no  hesitation  on  the  subject  in  the  case  of  those, 
who  could  only  indulge  in  an  ornamental  style  of 
dress  at  the  expense  of  the  poor  and  the  destitute: 
and  that  it  is  generally  thus  with  the  limited  allow- 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  43 

ance  of  young  persons.  There  are  many,  at  least, 
who  have  only  to  choose  whether  they  will  be  gay 
or  generous;  whether  they  will  give  their  little 
overplus  to  the  hungry  and  the  ignorant,  or  to  the 
milliner  and  jeweller. 

0  mamma!  how  many  things  there  are  to 
learn!  I  do  not  mean  such  only  as  our  masters 
teach  us;  but  things  much  more  difficult  than  they 
are.  Sometimes  I  almost  despair  of  thinking  and 
doing  right;  there  are  so  many  different  opinions, 
and  so  many  different  ways  of  viewing  things; 
yet,  as  dear  Grace  says,  with  a  simple,  sincere 
desire  to  do  so,  and  an  habitual  reference  to  the 
eye  and  to  the  will  of  God,  we  need  not  fear, 
however  weak  and  ignorant  in  ourselves,  that  we 
shall  greatly  mistake:  but  th^  danger  is  in  forget- 
ting this,  and  yielding  to  the  bias  of  our  own  in- 
clinations. 

1  ought  to  be  very  thankful,  that  while  I  am  so 
ill  qualified  to  direct  my  own  conduct,  I  have  so 
many  friends  able  and  willing  to  assist  me,  and, 
above  all,  if  I  find  any  disposition  to  look  to  him 
who  has  promised  to  be  the  guide  of  my  youth. 
Your  dutiful  and  affectionate 

Laura. 


44  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 


LETTER  X. 

I  am  much  pleased,  my  dear  Laura,  that  you 
are  so  well  prepared  to  acquiesce  in  my  refusal 
to  furnish  you  with  the  principal  article,  in  your 
list  of  commissions.  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that 
I  do  not  think  it  at  all  necessarxj:  besides,  that  I 
find  it  would  be  rather  too  costly  for  me,  and 
rather  too  showy  for  you. 

It  is  well  that  your  mind  is  so  far  fortified 
against  that  prevailing  evil,  the  love  of  dress.  I 
should  be  sorry,  indeed,  if  in  addition  to  those 
acquirements,  which  we  hope  will  be  permanent, 
one  should  be  added  which,  on  your  return  home, 
you  will  find  it  necessary  to  unlearn:  (no  uncom- 
mon case,  I  fear!)  and  I  am  glad  you  are  aware 
of  the  danger.  I  believe  you  will  not  be  appre- 
hensive of  my  passing  to  the  other  extreme.  A 
becoming,  subordinate  attention  to  appearance,  is, 
I  think,  forbidden  neither  by  reason  nor  scripture. 
Even  some  things  that  are  merely  ornamental, 
furnish  employment  to  thousands  of  industrious 
families;  and,  for  those  who  can  really  afford  it, 
to  encourage  them  is  a  far  more  effectual  method 
of  supporting  the  poor,  than  indiscriminate  alms- 
giving. I  am  decidedly  of  Mrs.  W.'s  opinion, 
that  there  are  those,  who  while  they  affect  great 
strictness  in  dress,  foster  as  much  pride  as  others 


A  MOTHER  AND   DAUGHTER.  4£ 

who  pay  the  most  regard  to  it.  But  having  con- 
ceded thus  much,  to  which,  it  is  probable,  that  in 
your  whole  number  I  should  not  find  a  dissentient 
voice,  I  would  endeavor  to  confirm  your  views  of 
the  subject,  by  exposing  some  of  the  evils  to 
which  a  passion  for  dress  would  lead  you.  An 
evil  it  is,  of  no  small  magnitude,  when  it  tempts 
us  to  pass  the  bounds  of  our  pecuniary  resources; 
or  even  barely  to  keep  within  them:  in  which 
case,  while  we  are  so  amply  providing  for  the  in- 
dustrious poor,  we  may  be  imperceptibly  descen- 
ding to  the  same  level.  Thousands  have  thus 
brought  themselves  to  participate  in  their  necessi- 
ties, without  the  advantages  of  industry  to  cope 
with  them.  It  is  really  painful  to  observe  the  ex- 
pensive habits  of  some  families,  especially  in  this 
respect,  who  might  support  their  pretensions  to 
gentility  much  better  by  a  plainer  appearance. 
Intent  only  on  the  present  moment,  they  forget 
to-morrow.  The  gratification  of  being  among  the 
first  in  a  new  fashion,  is  purchased  at  whatever 
price;  and  as,  when  it  becomes  general  it  loses 
its  charm,  there  can  be,  comparatively,  but  a  few 
able  to  attain  this  distinction, — an  honor  for  which 
such  anxiety,  study,  and  expense,  are  thought 
allowable.  Alas!  what  an  employment  of  that 
time  and  those  talents  of  which  a  solemn  account 
will  shortly  be  required! 

This  sad  propensity,  from  the  titled  lady  down 
to  the  kitchen  maid,  maintains  the  most  destruc- 


46  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

tive  progression.  The  former,  in  spite  of  all  her 
exertions,  discovers,  to  her  mortification,  that  she 
is  presently  overtaken  by  the  class  immediately 
beneath  her;  and  they,  in  their  turn,  are  obliged 
to  advance  by  their  neighbors  in  the  rear.  Thus 
is  each  urged  on,  till  the  two  extremes  nearly  ap- 
proximate. 

It  is  obvious,  that  the  higher  classes  (however 
averse  they  might  be  to  admit  the  fact)  are  event- 
ually impelled  by  the  lower:  for  were  these  to 
remain  stationary,  so  rapid  a  progression  would 
become  unnecessary;  and  vanity  itself  might  en- 
joy a  transient  repose.  It  is  amusing  to  observe 
in  what  different  lights  singularity  is  viewed  by 
amateurs  in  dress:  for  while  that  which  is  singu- 
lar as  being  o/d-fashioned,  is  ridiculed  and 'dis- 
carded, to  be  singular  in  a  new  one  would  to  some 
afford  the  highest  gratification.  One  would  imag- 
ine, that  the  estate,  the  reputation,  the  existence 
(we  will  not  say  the  soul)  depended,  with  many, 
on  their  sporting  something  entirely  new;  while 
on  those  who  (from  attention  to  higher  duties)  are 
not  such  adepts  in  the  science,  they  look  down 
with  conscious  superiority.  O,  that  half  this 
anxiety  were  manifested,  that  (in  a  better  sense) 
"old  things  might  pass  away,  and  all  things  be- 
come new!  " 

Do  but  compare  for  a  moment,  a  woman  actuat- 
ed by  this  pitiful  spirit  of  competition  and  love  of 
show,  with  another,  who,  occupied  by  things  of 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  47 

real  importance,  dresses  with  simplicity,  frugality, 
and  propriety,  according  to  her  station,  totally  un- 
moved by  the  rivalry  and  splendor  of  her  dressy 
neighbors;  and  then  judge  which  of  the  two  is 
the  most  dignified — (or  to  employ  a  term  more  in- 
telligible to  some)  the  most  genteel. 

I  wish,  my  dear  Laura,  that  those  among  you, 
with  whom  this  mania  has  commenced,  would  but 
calculate  how  large  a  proportion  of  time,  and  es- 
pecially of  thought,  it  commonly  engrosses;  and 
then  let  reason  and  conscience  decide  how  far  it 
is  injurious  to  mental  and  moral  growth.  Does  it 
not  seem  with  some  "the  one  thing  needful,"  to 
which  all  that  is  really  so  is  sacrificed? 

When  we  contemplate  our  various  relations — 
what  we  owe  to  our  fellow  creatures,  to  ourselves, 
and  to  God — is  it  not  fearful  to  reflect  upon  the 
large  portion  of  time  and  the  undue  degree  of  in- 
terest devoted  to  the  ornament  of  bodies  which 
must  so  soon  decay,  and  fall  into  ruin!  ';  Where 
the  treasure  is,  there  will  the  heart  be  also."  To 
ascertain  the  ruling  passion  of  the  mind,  and  its 
effects,  it  would  be  useful  to  make  a  pause,  and 
recollect  how  seldom  such  vain  cogitations  are 
interrupted  by  these  momentous  subjects,  which 
ought  to  predominate  in  minds  destined  to  an  im- 
mortal existence.  And,  on  the  contrary,  to  let 
conscience  witness  how  frequently  those  vanities 
intrude  into  the  house  of  God,  and  even  into  the 
closet!     Such    an   observation    as  this,  however, 


: 


48  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

would  be  to  many  unintelligible:  it  would  be 
"  speaking  in  an  unknown  tongue  "  to  those  whose 
closets  witness  only  the  business  of  the  toilet,  or 
the  perusal  of  a  romance.  But  there  is  a  time 
approaching,  when  "  the  mantles,  and  the  whim- 
pies,  and  the  crisping  pins,  must  be  laid  aside;"  for 
* '  the  fashion  of  this  world  passeth  away ! "  ' l  Strait 
is  the  gate,  and  narrow  is  the  way  that  leads  to 
life;  and  few  there  be  who  go  in  thereat."  But 
that  happy  few  are  clothed  in  robes  of  spotless 
whiteness,  and  unrivalled,  for  glory  and  beauty, 
by  the  most  costly  manufactures  of  this  world. 
Their  garb  and  ornaments,  indeed,  give  them  the 
appearance  of  singularity  in  the  midst  of  an  evil 
generation:  for  they  are  evidently  pilgrims  and 
strangers,  passing  on  to  another  country:  and 
who  partake,  with  self-denying  moderation,  of  the 
enjoyments  of  this,  with  which  they  are  supplied 
from  stage  to  stage. 

Let  not  your  ambition,  then,  my  Laura,  be  de- 
graded to  such  things  as  iC  braiding  the  hair,  and 
gold,  and  pearls,  and  costly  array;"  but  rather 
strive  to  attain  a  meek  and  quiet  spirit,  and  the 
rest  of  those  christian  graces,  which  manifest  to 
what  country  we  are  bound:  for  these  are,  "  in  the 
sight  of  God,  of  great  price."  Let  your  language 
still  be  with  our  revered  poet, 

"  Then  will  I  set  my  heart  to  find 
Inward  adornings  or  the  mind; 
Knowledge  and  virtue,  truth  and  grace; 
These  are  the  robes  of  richest  dress." 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  49 

Although,  from  my  neglecting  your  commission, 
many  will  be  beforehand  with  you  in  the  new 
fashion,  you  will  not  be  disconcerted  at  this,  nor 
suffer  such  a  trifle  to  be  a  disappointment.  Let 
your  chief  ambition  be,  that  none  shall  get  the 
start  of  you  in  better  things.  We  are  solicitous, 
as  you  well  know,  my  dear  girl,  to  gratify  all  your 
reasonable  wishes,  as  far  as  we  can;  but  it  is  no 
part  of  our  plan  to  expend  all  upon  you  now;  or, 
by  unkind  indulgence,  to  cherish  such  dispositions 
as  must,  eventually,  prove  inimical  to  your  happi- 
ness. We  would  lay  a  foundation  for  the  welfare 
of  our  Laura  when  her  parents  are  sleeping  in 
the  dust. 

Your  affectionate  Mother. 


LETTER  XI. 

I  am  really  surprised,  my  dear  mamma,  to  find 
how  near  Christmas  is!  This,  I  am  sure,  has  not 
appeared  a  long  half  year  to  me:  it  seems  but  a 
little  while  since  that  fine  summer's  morning, 
when  I  took  a  sorrowful  leave  of  you.  And  this 
I  think  I  can  say,  that  the  pleasure  I  feel  at  the 
prospect  of  the  approaching  vacation,  arises  en- 
tirely from  the  delightful  hope  of  seeing  you,  my 
vol.  v.  5 


50  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

dear,  dear  papa,  mamma,  and  Kitty!  and  not  at 
all  from  the  thought  of  being  released  from  the 
restraints  and  employments  of  school.  I  pity  those 
who  are  going  home  to  spend  the  time  in  idleness 
and  indulgence;  and  rejoice  to  think  that  this 
would  not  be  my  case,  even  if  I  were  ever  so 
much  disposed  to  it.  I  hope  to  return  to  school, 
not  with  reluctance,  but  with  renewed  ardor  for 
my  pursuits;  it  will  also  be  a  great  pleasure  to  meet 
many  of  my  school  associates  again, — dear  Grace, 
especially;  besides  Mrs.  W.,  whose  kindness  I 
shall  never  forget. 

I  shall  say  nothing  about  my  improvement  irr 
any  respect,  as  you  will  so  soon  be  able  to  judge 
of  that  for  yourselves:  only  I  must  just  tell  you 
beforehand,  not  to  expect  too  much,  as  you  know 
it  is  only  half  a  year;  and  I  have  had  a  great 
many  things  to  attend  to  in  that  time. 

I  am  glad,  now,  that  you  and  papa  decided  as 
you  did,  about  some  things  that  I  was,  at  first, 
very  desirous  to  learn.  And  so,  I  think,  is  Mrs. 
W.  She  appears  to  regret  it  when  the  ladies'  pa- 
rents are  anxious  (as  most  of  them  are)  for  their 
daughters  to  acquire  a  variety  of  accomplish- 
ments: because  it  prevents  their  making  great 
proficiency  in  any  one  of  them:  and,  especially, 
as  it  prevents  their  giving  sufficient  attention  to 
pursuits,  which  she  considers  of  far  higher  impor- 
tance. 

Even   Mr.  Biggins,  mamma,  desired   that  his 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  51 

daughter  might  learn  every  thing  that  money  could 
pay  for;  and  particularized  painting  on  velvet,  and 
playing  on  the  tambourine!  It  is  well,  I  think,  that 
Mrs.  W.  has  better  ideas  of  education  than  poor 
Mr.  Biggins;  or  his  daughter  would  be  rendered 
more  ridiculous — that  is,  I  mean,  would  be  more 
exposed  to  ridicule  from  inconsiderate  people, 
than  before  she  came  to  school. 

Mrs.  W.  is  constantly  urging  us  to  take  pains, 
and  pay  every  attention  to  whatever  we  attempt 
to  acquire;  but  she  is  very  anxious  that  we  should 
distinguish  between  mere  accomplishments,  and 
that  sterling  knowledge  which  furnishes  and  en- 
larges the  mind.  Even  accomplishments,  she 
says,  are  chiefly  to  be  valued  as  they  tend  to  re- 
fine the  taste,  and  extend  the  views:  and  I  have 
often  heard  her  observe,  that  life  is  too  short  to 
allow  us  to  devote  much  of  it  to  any  thing  that  may 
not  directly  or  indirectly  become  useful  to  our- 
selves or  others.  She  once  knew  a  young  lady, 
who  had  devoted  her  whole  life  to  learning  to  play 
on  the  harp.  She  succeeded,  as  might  be  expect- 
ed, in  her  object — that  of  playing  on  the  harp 
better  than  any  of  her  friends:  but  what  then? 
"  What  a  terrible  mistake,"  said  Mrs.  W.  "  for 
a  being  sent  into  the  world  to  prepare  for  immor- 
tality!" 

You  were  right,  mamma,  in  your  opinion  of 
Miss  Biggins-  for  I  really  think  she  is  very  im- 
provable by  education.     You  have  no  idea  how 


52  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

patiently  she  applies:  and  how  eagerly  she  seems 
to  receive  the  new  ideas,  that  are  every  day 
presented  to  her  mind. 

We  are  just  now  reading  "  Gregory's  Lessons," 
which  I  remember  being  so  much  interested  in 
four  years  ago;  especially  the  astronomical  parts,, 
which  made  me  first  love  to  look  at  the  stars,  and 
to  think  of  them,  and  of  Him  who  "  calls  them 
all  by  their  names,"  as  I  lay  awake  at  night,  and 
saw  them  twinkling  through  the  window-panes. 
It  is  all  new,  as  you  may  suppose,  to  Miss  Big- 
gins;  and  she  seems  quite  pleased,  and  anxious 
to  know  more.  Now  this,  as  I  heard  Mrs.  W. 
explaining  to  her,  has  opened  her  mind,  furnished 
it  with  new  ideas,  and  afforded  her  a  new  source 
of  pleasure ;  pleasure,  too,  of  a  noble  and  elevating 
kind.  While,  if  she  had  been  employing  the 
same  time  in  scratching  upon  a  piece  of  velvet, 
she  might,  indeed,  have  been  able  to  produce  a 
gay  screen  or  work-bag;  but  her  mind  would  have 
remained  as  uncultivated  as  before.  How  many 
young  women  one  may  see,  as  Mrs.  W.  says,  who 
can  display  a  great  variety  of  showy  acquirements, 
and  yet,  are  pretty  nearly  as  common,  narrow, 
and  vulgar-minded,  as  those  who  have  received 
no  education  at  all!  "  Not  that  I  would  infer," 
said  she,  "  that  all  things  which  are  called  accom- 
plishments should  rank  no  higher  in  our  estima- 
tion, than  drawing  a  flower;  since  some  of  them, 
when  properly  studied,  approach  very  nearly,  in 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  53 

their  effects  upon  the  mind,  to  more  solid  acqui- 
sitions. But  yet,  with  respect  to  all  of  them,  I 
would  ever  keep  in  mind  the  brevity  of  life,  and  the 
grand  business  of  it.55 

I  was  sure  you  would  be  pleased  to  hear  how 
much  Mrs.  W.'s  ideas,  on  this  subject,  accord  with 
yours  and  papa's;  and  that,  after  all  your  anxiety, 
you  have  intrusted  your  poor  Laura  to  one,  who 
is  so  much  more  anxious  to  make  her  wise  and 
good,  than  showy  and  brilliant.  I  hope  her  kind 
intentions  and  yours  may  not  be  wholly  disappoint- 
ed.    I  know  whose  fault  it  will  be  if  they  are. 

We  are  so  very  busy  now,  that  perhaps  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  write  again  before  we  meet;  and  I 
postpone  all  further  particulars  till  that  happy  day. 
But  I  hope,  dearest  mother,  that  you  will  afford 
one  more  of  your  kind  letters  to  your  affectionate 

Laura. 


LETTER  XII. 

My  dear  Child, 

It  was  but  a  few  evenings  ago,  that  poor  Kitty 
suddenly  exclaimed,  with  great  animation,  "  This 
day  fortnight  Laura  will  be  here!"  "  If  nothing 
happens  to  prevent  it,"  said  your  papa.  "  To 
prevent  it!"  replied  Kitty:  "  dear  papa,  what  can 
5* 


54  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

happen  to  prevent  it?"  "  That  I  cannot  tell, 
indeed,"  replied  he;  "  and  I  hope  nothing  will: 
but  you  remember  how  they  are  reproved,  who 
speak  too  confidently  of  c  going  into  such  a  city;' 
and  how  we  are  warned  not  to  '  boast  of  to-morrow, 
as  we  know  not  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.5  " 
The  genera]  propriety  of  this,  Kitty  could  not 
dispute:  though,  I  fear,  it  did  not  tend  to  check 
the  confidence  of  her  expectations  in  the  present 
instance. 

I  relate  this  little  circumstance,  my  dear  Laura, 
to  prepare  you  for  a  disappointment,  which  it 
gives  me  a  great  deal  of  pain  to  communicate. 
As  the  time  approached  for  your  return,  we,  as 
well  as  yourself,  began  to  indulge  many  agree- 
able anticipations;  and  hoping  it  would  increase 
our  pleasure  and  yours,  I  had  written  to  request 
my  young  friend  Charlotte  to  come,  and  make 
her  promised  visit  to  us  during  the  Christmas 
vacation.  She  accepted  the  invitation,  and  has 
been  with  us  a  few  days.  But  how  long  she  may 
remain,  or  in  what  manner  be  conveyed  hence,  is 
extremely  uncertain.  She  came  safe  and  well, 
but  is  now  confined  with  an  acute  fever,  which 
affords  little  prospect  of  a  speedy  recovery.  And 
as  our  medical  attendant  cannot  yet  ascertain  what 
form  her  disorder  may  assume,  nor  how  it  may 
terminate,  we  think  it  best,  that  our  dear  Laura 
should  forego  the  expected  pleasure;  provided 
it   is  convenient   to   Mrs.    W.    to   allow   you  to 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  55 

remain  with   her,    of  which  she  will  soon  inform 
you. 

It  is  highly  probable,  therefore,  that  we  shall 
not  meet  before  midsummer:  I  need  not  say,  my 
dear  girl,  that  the  disappointment  is  as  much  ours 
as  yours;  but  as  it  is  unavoidable,  I  hope  we  shall 
all  acquiesce  in  it  cheerfully.  As  there  are  few 
evils  without  their  accompanying  good,  we  hope 
that  you  will  derive  a  valuable  lesson  from  the 
present  circumstance.  However  common-place 
the  observation,  it  is  an  established  and  important 
truth,  and  one  of  which  the  young  need  to  be 
continually  reminded,  that  this  is  a  world  of  un- 
certainties and  disappointments.  You  may,  with 
propriety,  my  love,  view  the  event  as  a  sample 
of  your  future  experience.  I  was  going  to  add, 
well  will  it  be  if  crosses  of  no  greater  magnitude 
await  you.  But  He  who  dispenses  our  sorrows 
is  best  acquainted  with  the  kind  and  degree  of 
suffering  necessary  to  our  eventual  happiness. 
Our  lesser  trials,  as  well  as  our  heavier  calamities, 
come  alike  under  the  cognisance  of  Him  who  re- 
gards "  a  sparrow  falling  to  the  ground,"  as  well 
as  the  desolating  earthquake.  It  is  well,  however, 
that  futurity  is  concealed  from  our  view:  as  fore- 
knowledge, if  we  possessed  it,  could  not  enable  us 
to  "  add  one  cubit  to  our  stature,  nor  to  make  one 
hair  white  or  black."  Could  we  have  foreseen 
tSe  extent  of  our  separation,  it  would  have  ren- 
ered  the  parting   still  more  painful:    could   we 


56  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

have  foreseen  what  has  occasioned  it,  we  might 
have  withheld  our  invitation  to  Charlotte; — when, 
either  for  her  or  for  us,  the  circumstance  may 
eventually  prove  a  propitious  one. 

Not  having  seen  her  since  the  time  of  her  dear 
mother's  death,  when  she  was  an  infant,  I  was 
anxious  to  see  whether  she  inherits  those  excel- 
lences which  I  so  highly  venerated  in  her  parent, 
and  by  which  she  is  still  endeared  to  my  memory. 
How  far  my  hopes  were  fulfilled  in  this  respect, 
I  may  tell  you  on  a  future  occasion:  at  present, 
all  our  attention  is  engrossed  by  her  alarming- 
situation.  We  know  not  but  she  may  be  going 
to  join  her  parents  very  soon;  and  if  she  is  pre- 
pared for  such  a  change,  it  is  well;  for  she  has 
now  no  ability  to  attend  to  her  eternal  interests. 
Let  this  affecting  occurrence  stimulate  you,  my 
dear  Laura,  to  "  remember  your  Creator  before 
the  evil  day  comes,"  which  may  even  now  be  at 
hand,  "  in  which  you  shall  have  no  pleasure5' — 
no  power  to  attend  even  to  the  most  trivial  con- 
cerns; much  less  to  those  of  everlasting  import- 
ance. 

l(  A  flower  may  fade  before  't  is  noon — " 

Your  affectionate  Mother. 


A  MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  57 


LETTER  XIII. 

My  dear  Mother, 

I  will  not  attempt  to  conceal  from  you  how  ill 
I  bore  the  first  news  of  my  disappointment.  It 
was  certainly  the  most  severe  one  I  ever  had;  as 
I  had  indulged  myself  lately  in  imagining  every 
circumstance  of  our  expected  meeting,  and  was 
making  many  preparations  for  it,  which  are  now 
of  no  use: — but  that  is  all  over. 

I  presented  your  letter  to  Mrs.  W.  She  desires 
me  to  say,  that  it  is  quite  convenient  for  me  to 
remain  with  her  during  the  vacation;  and  is  so 
kind  as  to  add,  that  she  will  do  all  in  her  power  to 
make  it  agreeable  to  me.  I  am  very  sorry  for 
poor  Charlotte:  and  felt  ashamed  of  my  selfish- 
ness, when  I  found  how  long  I  continued  thinking 
of  my  own  disappointment,  before  I  began  to 
recollect  the  occasion  of  it,  or  to  consider  how 
much  lighter  my  trial  is  than  hers. 

I  have  often  observed,  that  pleasures  are  half 
spoiled  to  us  by  some  little  unforeseen  vexation 
attending  them.  Now  I  have  made  another  dis- 
covery, which  surprised  me  still  more;  and  that 
is,  that  even  pains  and  disappointments  have 
their  pleasures.  You  would  be  pleased  to  hear 
how  many  things  have  happened,  to  reconcile  me 
to  my  fate.  In  the  first  place,  there  was  the 
sympathy  of  my  companions.     I  have  heard,  that 


58  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

friendship  is  best  tried  by  adversity,  and  so  I 
found  it.  There  were  none,  indeed,  who  did  not 
express  some  concern  for  me;  and  some  from 
whom  I  least  expected  it  I  am  sure  meant  what 
they  said.  Fanny  Fielding,  who  had  been  of 
late  so  intent  upon  her  employments,  in  prepara- 
tion for  going  home,  that  she  has  not  had  a  word 
to  spare  for  any  body,  surprised  me  by  her 
warm,  unaffected  expressions  of  concern:  while 
Jessy  Cooke,  who  had  just  heard  that  she  was  to 
spend  the  vacation  with  her  relations  in  London, 
was  so  engrossed  by  her  own  happiness,  that  she 
could  scarcely  take  the  trouble  even  to  saij  that 
she  was  sorry.  Oh,  how  much  I  was  mistaken 
in  Jessy  at  first!  Nothing  gratified  me  more  than 
the  sympathy  of  some  of  the  little  ones,  who,  in 
the  midst  of  their  delight  at  the  thought  of  going 
home,  came  running  to  kiss  and  comfort  me; 
wishing,  as  they  said,  "that  poor  Laura  was 
going  to  see  her  mamma." 

Grace  did  not  say  much,  for  she  is  never  lavish 
of  words;  but  such  is  the  generosity  of  her  friend- 
ship, that  I  could  see  her  own  pleasure  was  really 
lessened  by  my  disappointment.  If  she  could,  I 
know  she  would  gladly  have  shLred  it  with  me. 
She  did  all  in  her  power  to  comfort  me;  and  what 
was  better,  gave  me  excellent  advice  for  bearing* 
it  well.  What  I  most  dreaded  was  witnessing  the 
busy  preparations  in  which  I  was  to  have  no  share,, 
and  seeing  the  happy  parties  set  off.     She.  there- 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  59 

fore,  advised  me,  instead  of  being  an  idle  specta- 
tor, to  engage  in  the  bustle  myself,  by  assisting 
the  rest.  She  told  me  to  be,  not  only  patient,  but 
cheerful;  and  prophesied,  that  the  satisfaction  of 
submitting  heroically,  would  compensate  for  all 
the  pain.  And  now,  mamma, — would  you  believe 
it: — those  three  days  of  bustle,  while  the  school 
was  breaking  up,  passed  as  happily  as  almost  any 
I  can  remember.  I  was  all  the  time  at  every 
body's  call;  packing  for  one,  and  finishing  some- 
thing for  another.  I  found  particular  pleasure  in 
assisting  those  who  felt  the  least  for  me;  because, 
you  know,  my  services  to  them  were  more  disin- 
terested. I  packed  all  Jessy's  things,  and  mounted 
several  drawings  for  her,  ready  to  take  home. 
By  these  means,  I  scarcely  felt  a  pang  when  the 
last  chaise  drove  off,  and  I  returned  to  the  silent 
empty  school-room.  And  what  do  you  imagine  I 
found  there? — a  beautiful  writing-desk,  very  com- 
pletely fitted  up,  and  a  letter  directed  to  me.  It 
was  written  in  the  name  of  the  whole  school,  and 
signed  by  all  their  names;  and  was  to  beg  my 
acceptance  of  the  desk,  as  an  expression  of  their 
united  affection.  Mrs.  W.  says,  that  as  soon  as 
they  heard  of  my  disappointment,  they  asked  her 
permission  to  raise  a  subscription  among  them- 
selves for  this  purpose.  Was  it  not  kind? — and, 
instead  of  complaining,  ought  I  not  to  be  con- 
tented and  happy?  I  am  now  using  it  for  the 
first  time;   and  it  would  be  shameful,  I  am  sure, 


60  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

to  write  a  murmuring  word  upon  my  pretty 
present. 

Nothing  can  exceed  dear  Mrs.  W.'s  kindness 
to  me.  She  leaves  me  entirely  at  liberty  to  dis- 
pose of  my  time  during  the  vacation;  only  re- 
commending  me  to  continue  a  regular  application 
to  my  studies,  as  the  best  way  to  prevent  lassi- 
tude, and  to  make  the  time  pass  pleasantly.  By 
this  means,  she  says,  I  shall  also  be  able  to  ascer- 
tain the  progress  I  have  made ;  and  see  how  far  I 
can  go  without  help,  and  whether  I  have  acquired 
so  much  strength  of  mind,  and  strength  of  habit, 
as  to  be  attentive  and  industrious  when  restraints 
are  removed.  But  while  she  recommends  this, 
she  is  kindly  planning  many  little  pleasures  and 
recreations  for  us,  to  make  it  appear  like  holyday 
time. 

I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  another  is  spending  the 
vacation  here  as  well  as  myself.  A  young  lady 
who  has  lately  lost  both  her  parents:  she  came 
last  quarter;  and  having  no  comfortable  home  to 
go  to,  Mrs.  W.  offered  to  retain  her  here.  I 
cannot  say,  however,  that  this  renders  my  stay 
so  much  more  agreeable  as  you  might  suppose. 
If  I  could  have  chosen  a  companion,  it  would  have 
been  delightful  indeed  (and  you  can  easily  guess 
who  it  would  have  been);  but  Miss  Morrison — 
though,  on  account  of  her  circumstances,  I  would 
wish  to  be  particularly  kind  and  attentive  to  her — 
is  not  the  kind  of  girl  I  should  have  made  choice 


A    MOTHER   AXD  DAUGHTER.  61 

of.  JVor  does  she  at  all  answer  the  idea  one 
naturally  forms  of  an  orphan.  Before  she  came, 
I  imagined  her  to  be  a  pale,  interesting-looking 
girl;  rather  tall,  with  light  blue  eyes,  in  deep 
mourning,  and  very  melancholy.  Instead  of  this, 
she  is  stout  and  healthy;  fond  of  romping  and 
school-jokes;  and  not'at  all  intelligent.  So  that 
she  rather  spoils  the  pleasure  I  should  otherwise 
enjoy  in  Mrs.  W.'s  society:  as  well  as  that,  while 
we  are 'together,  I  am  obliged  to  talk  to  her,  when 
I  would  so  much  rather  indulge  my  own  reflec- 
tions: for  now  I  have  you,  and  Grace,  and  a 
great  many  things  to  think  of.  Besides,  she 
talks  such  nonsense,  sometimes!  I  think  Mrs. 
W.  perceives  that  we  are  not  very  suitable  com- 
panions. She  was  saying  the  other  day,  that 
when  we  are  placed  in  the  society  of  persons  who 
are  uncongenial  and  uninteresting  to  us,  we  have 
an  opportunity  of  exercising  unmixed  benevo- 
lence; which  is  far  from  being  the  case  when  as- 
sociating with  those  we  love,  whose  esteem  we 
most  desire,  and  whose  society  is  flattering  and 
delightful  to  us.  There  is  often,  she  says,  more 
of  selfishness  than  we  suspect  in  the  attentions 
we  pay  to  favorite  friends.  But  to  interest  our- 
selves in  the  concerns  of  those  who  are  compara- 
tively indifferent  to  us, — to  be  kind  and  courteous, 
and  to  converse  with  them  when  we  had  rather  be 
silent, — this,  she  said,  is  genuine  good  nature: 
and  the  self-denial  it  demands  will  be  amply  re- 
vol.  v.  6 


62  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

paid  by  the  esteem  of  others,  as  well  as  by  the 
satisfaction  of  our  own  minds.  She  also  said, 
that  it  is  a  great  mistake,  very  common  to  young 
people,  which  time  and  experience  would  correct, 
to  despise  the  good  opinion  of  any  one.  And, 
that  it  not  unfrequently  happens,  that  the  good 
will  of  those  whose  esteem  we  scarcely  thought 
worth  obtaining,  proves  far  more  valuable  to  us 
than  that  which  we  have  been  most  solicitous  to 
win. 

I  find  great  pleasure  in  rising  at  the  usual  hour, 
though  no  bell  calls  me;  and  in  applying  assidu- 
ously when  no  one  requires  it.  If  I  am  industri- 
ous during  the  whole  vacation,  I  shall  get  very 
forward;  and  commence  again  with  great  advan- 
tage. I  assure  you,  I  quite  enjoy  myself  when  I 
am  hard  at  work  in  the  empty  school-room. 

Hoping  soon  to  hear  a  better  account  of  your 
guest,  I  remain  your  lonely 

Laura. 


LETTER  XIV. 

My  dear  Laura, 

After  a  period  of  painful  anxiety,  on  behalf  of 
our  dear  invalid,  I  have  at  length  the  pleasure  to 
inform  you  of  her  gradual  recovery.     I  think  I 


A  MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  63 

promised  to  give  you  some  account  of  her;  a  task 
more  pleasing  now  than  it  would  have  been  when 
first  she  came  under  our  roof.  Perhaps  my  af- 
fection for  her  dear  mother  might  operate  to  her 
disadvantage,  by  causing  me  to  raise  my  expec- 
tations too  high.  Indeed,  prejudice  is  always 
injurious,  even  when  exercised  in  favor  of  an  ob- 
ject. There  was  a  confident  and  unembarrassed 
air,  even  in  Charlotte's  first  introduction  to  us, 
which  never  fails  (in  a  young  person  especially) 
to  make  an  unfavorable  impression.  But  poor 
Charlotte  had  been  educated  at  a  fashionable 
boarding-school,  and  under  the  guardianship  of  a 
dissipated  aunt.  She  has  been  introduced  into 
the  world  as  a  young  woman  of  fortune;  with 
the  addition  of  personal  advantages,  and  various 
accomplishments.  She  had,  therefore,  every  thing 
to  elate,  and  (being  a  stranger  to  herself)  nothing 
to  humble  her.  How  widely  different  is  the  con- 
fidence and  self-sufficiency  of  a  vain,  thoughtless 
mind,  from  that  holy  boldness  which  enables  the 
meanest  Christian  to  exclaim,  "Whom  shall  I 
fear? — The  Lord  is  the  strength  of  my  life,  of 
whom  shall  J  be  afraid  r" 

It  was  soon  apparent,  that  Charlotte's  visit  to 
us  was  rather  in  polite  compliance  with  our  repeat- 
ed invitations,  than  from  any  inclination  of  her 
own.  She  was  aware,  I  believe,  that  our  princi- 
ples and  habits  were  quite  dissimilar  to  hers.  I 
observed  too,  that  Kitty,  who  for  some  time  before 


64  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

her  arrival  had  thought  and  talked  of  little  but 
Charlotte,  felt  chilled  and  disappointed  at  the 
first  interview.  The  feelings  with  which  she  was 
prepared  to  meet  her  new  friend  were  repressed 
by  a  certain  manner,  which  is  not  calculated  to 
interest  the  heart. 

She  had  been  with  us  but  a  few  hours  before  I 
perceived,  from  the  alternate  flushings  and  palj- 
ness  of  her  cheek,  that  she  was  not  well.  She 
had  a  slight  cough,  a  constant  inclination  to 
approach  the  fire,  and  frequent  shiverings,  which, 
however,  she  took  great  care  to  conceal.  When 
I  intimated  my  apprehensions,  she  made  light  of 
them;  and  utterly  rejected  any  precautionary 
means,  which  might,  in  this  stage  of  the  complaint, 
have  prevented  the  consequences  which  followed. 

She  had,  it  seems,  on  the  night  preceding  her 
journey,  been  to  an  assembly,  and  acknowledged 
that  she  caught  a  slight  cold  by  coming  out  while 
heated  with  dancing.  But  she  said  she  was 
proof  against  such  accidents;  that  she  never  con- 
fined or  nursed  herself;  and  on  my  repeatedly 
urging  her  to  do  so  on  the  present  occasion,  she 
laughed,  and  asked  Kitty  if  she  was  always  serv- 
ed so  when  she  had  a  cold.  But  notwithstand- 
ing these  bravados,  it  was  very  evident  that  the 
disorder  rapidly  gained  ground;  especially  after 
she  had  persisted,  in  spite  of  my  remonstrances, 
in  walking  about  the  garden,  with  little  extra 
covering,    although   it   was   a   damp     and   foggy 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  65 

morning.  But  with  one  so  competent  to  judge 
for  herself  (as  doubtless  every  young  lady  of  her 
age  must  be)  all  friendly  interference  was  deemed 
superfluous. 

But  at  length  Charlotte  could  brave  it  out  no 
longer.  Sickness  had  laid  a  powerful  hand  on 
her,  and  peremptorily  confined  her  to  her  bed; 
and  death  stood  at  the  door.  Nor  could  all  the 
skill  of  the  physician,  nor  the  assiduities  of  friend- 
ship, afford  hope  for  some  days,  that  the  disorder 
would  not  finally  prevail.  Delirium  ensued: — it 
was  the  delirium  of  a  dissipated  mind,  betraying 
its  habits  and  propensities  by  every  incoherent 
expression.  Alas!  it  was  but  a  remove  from  the 
vain  rovings  of  her  distempered  imagination  when 
she  thought  herself  well  and  happy.  But,  with 
the  return  of  her  recollection  and  reasoning 
powers,  a  conviction  of  the  vanity  and  insufficien- 
cy of  those  things,  which  heretofore  had  constitut- 
ed her  supreme  felicity,  seemed  to  penetrate  her 
mind.  She,  at  least,  perceived  that,  however 
congenial  they  might  be  to  her  taste  and  wishes, 
she  held  them  by  a  very  precarious  tenure,  and 
that  something  more  was  necessary  to  constitute 
genuine  happiness,  than  delights  of  which  she 
might  be  deprived  at  a  moment's  warning.  Her 
self-complacency,  too,  seemed  to  have  received  a 
considerable  shock:  she  now  felt  herself  to  be  a 
poor  dependent  creature;  depressed  or  elated  by 
circumstances  at  which,  a  few  weeks  before,  she 
6* 


66  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

would  have  spurned.  When  she  had  gained  suf- 
ficient strength  to  sit  up  in  her  bed,  she  requested 
a  glass  to  be  brought.  I  complied;  and  watched 
with  interest  the  turn  of  her  countenance  when 
she  beheld  her  altered  appearance.  The  shock 
was  almost  too  much  for  her  feeble  frame.  The 
pallid  cheek,  sunk  eye,  and  languid  expression, 
enforced  a  lesson  which,  I  hope,  will  not  soon  be 
forgotten.  "  Surely,"  I  said,  cc  c  all  flesh  is 
grass,  and  the  beauty  thereof  as  the  flower  of  the 
field!'"  She  assented  mournfully;  and  I  added. 
"  But  although  '  the  grass  withereth,  and  the  flow- 
er fadeth,  the  word  of  the  Lord  endureth  forever:' 
that  word,  which  is  not  only  able  to  raise  the  de- 
cayed body  even  from  the  dust  of  death,  but  to 
renew  the  depraved  soul,  and  make  it  fit  for 
heaven."  "  I  perceive,"  said  she,  "that  either 
you  have  too  much  religion,  or  I  too  little."  I 
replied,  that  whatever  might  be  the  case  with  her, 
I  was  quite  sure  the  supposition  did  not  apply  to 
me.  She  afterwards  said,  she  had  never  felt  half 
so  grateful  for  all  the  blessings  with  which  she 
had  been  favored,  as  she  now  did  (enfeebled  as 
she  was)  for  the  hope  of  recovery.  She  seemed, 
however,  to  shrink  from  the  trials  and  difficulties 
which  she  perceived  must  attend  a  new,  a  reli- 
gious life;  and  greatly  to  fear  her  own  stability. 
"  What  strength  of  mind  and  self-command  must 
religious  people  have!"  she  said.  "  They  have 
strength,  indeed,"  I  replied;   "  but  it  is  derived 


A  MOTHER   AXD   DAUGHTER.  67 

strength.  The  apostle  says,  c  I  can  do  all  things 
through  Christ  that  strengtheneth  me;'  and  the 
weakest  Christian  can  make  the  same  boast.  If 
you  find,  my  dear  Charlotte,"  I  said,  "any  dis- 
position to  apply  the  solemn  lesson  you  have  re- 
ceived to  your  soul's  advantage,  regard  it  as  the 
striving  of  the  spirit  of  God  on  your  heart,  taking 
occasion,  by  your  recent  sufferings  and  danger, 
to  impress  divine  things  upon  your  mind.  And 
the  same  powerful  aid,  if  sought  and  cherished, 
will  be  afforded  to  finish  what,  I  hope,  is  begun. 
May  you  be  induced  to  co-operate  with  these 
gentle  influences;  and  accept  the  Gospel  on  the 
terms  on  which  it  is  offered! — accept  a  Saviour, 
to  do  all  in  and  for  you." 

Thus  I  would  hope  that  our  young  friend  is  at 
least  inquiring  the  way  to  Zion.  May  she  find 
the  right  road,  and  not  be  turned  aside  to  either 
hand,  by  the  tern ptat ions  that  await  her!  There 
are  so  many  who,  in  consequence  of  such  alarm- 
ing warnings,  "  run  well  "  for  a  time,  but  are 
afterwards  "hindered,"  that  at  present  we  can 
but  "  rejoice  with  trembling." 

I  am  glad  to  find,  my  dear  Laura,  that  you 
have  gained  a  little  experience  since  you  quitted 
home;  sufficient,  I  would  hope,  to  prevent  your 
forming  a  very  hasty  judgment  in  future,  either  of 
persons  or  things.  Even  Mrs.  W.  appears  to  be 
more  agreeable  than  you  had  supposed  a  gover- 
ness could  be. — Miss  Dacre,  whose  amiableness 


68  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

you  were  at  first  disposed  to  question,  proves  to 
be  your  most  valued  friend: — while  Jessy,  who 
stood  so  high  in  your  estimation  for  a  few  days, 
recedes  into  the  back  ground.  You  perceive 
also,  that  events  are  not  to  be  judged  of  prema- 
turely, any  more  than  persons.  "When  you  left 
home,  it  would  have  greatly  embittered  the  sepa- 
ration could  you  have  known  that  you  were  not  to 
see  it  again  till  your  final  return.  Yet,  how  many 
agreeable  circumstances  have  sprung  from  your 
disappointments! 

Well,  my  Laura,  if  trivial  events  like  these 
produce  such  unlooked-for  benefits,  how  much 
more  may  you  expect,  if  you  walk  in  "  Wisdom's 
ways,"  to  find,  though  set  with  many  a  thorn, 
that  they  will  prove  to  be  "  paths  of  peace  and 
pleasantness;"  and  that  all  things,  however  ad- 
verse they  may  appear,  shall  work  together  for 
your  ultimate  good!  —  Such  observations,  also, 
will  tend  to  abate  your  surprise  at  the  frequent 
difference  between  our  views  and  modes  of  think- 
ing and  your  own.  If,  in  a  few  months,  you  have 
gained  so  much  experience,  our  stock,  in  a  much 
greater  number  of  years,  ought  to  have  accumu- 
lated in  a  proportionate  degree.  The  result  of 
which  will  sometimes  be,  that  what  appears  de- 
cidedly good  or  evil  to  you,  may  seem  otherwise 
to  us;  we  may  <vif  not  compelled  to  form  a  judg- 
ment quite  the  reverse")  at  least  wish  to  suspend 
our  opinion  respecting  it.     In  this  imperfect  state, 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  69 

diffidence  of  our  own  judgment  becomes  every 
age;  but  how  unbecoming  must  confidence,  pos- 
itiveness,  and  impatience  of  contradiction  be  in 
those  who  have  neither  years  nor  experience  to 
support  it! 

Your  affectionate  Mother. 


LETTER  XV. 

My  dear  Mamma, 

I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  of  poor  Charlotte's  re- 
covery; and  especially  of  the  hopeful  conse- 
quences of  her  illness.  Pray  give  my  love  to  her; 
for  I  am  sure  I  should  love  her  noic.  I  can  well 
remember  my  own  sensations  when  I  was  ill  three 
years  ago,  and  when  I  discovered,  by  your  looks, 
that  you  were  uneasy  about  me.  I  thought  that 
if  I  recovered  I  should  never  forget  the  impres- 
sions I  then  felt;  but,  oh,  when  health  returned, 
how  soon  they  wore  off  !  When  I  am  quite  well, 
and  busy  and  happy  (as,  indeed,  lam  very  often), 
how  difficult  it  is,  to  think  religion  of  as  much 
importance  as  it  appears  to  be  on  a  sick  bed! 

Well!  the  vacation  is  over;  and  we  are  all 
going  on  just  as  usual  again.  Considering  my 
disappointment,  the  time  passed  as  pleasantly  as 


70  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

I  could  expect.  I  saw  more  of  Mrs.  W.  in  those 
few  weeks  than  during  the  whole  previous  half 
year;  and  I  assure  you  I  love  her  better  than  I 
ever  did  before. 

I  have  been  sitting  a  long  time,  with  the  pen  in 
my  hand,  considering  whether  I  should  expose  my 
vanity  and  folly,  by  confessing  a  little  mortification 
I  had  the  first  week  or  two  of  the  vacation;  but  as 
it  did  me  a  great  deal  of  good,  I  think  I  must  tell 
you.  I  mentioned  in  my  last,  that  Miss  Morrison 
was  staying  here  with  me;  and,  from  what  I  then 
said,  you  would,  perhaps,  perceive  that  I  fancied 
myself,  in  many  things,  very  much  her  superior. 
Yes,  mamma,  I  felt  this  so  much,  —  so  much 
more,  indeed,  than  I  was  aware, — that  I  made  no 
doubt  Mrs.  W.  thought  the  same;  and  conclud- 
ed, that  she  would  value  my  company  much  the 
most;  feel  hers  a  kind  of  interruption;  and  address 
her  conversation  chiefly  to  me.  But,  instead  of 
this,  her  attentions  were  so  equally  divided  between 
us,  that  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  any 
body  to  guess  which  of  us  she  preferred.  I  should 
not  have  regarded  her  bestowing  even  more  kind- 
ness  upon  Miss  Morrison,  if  she  had  but  flattered 
me  by  engaging  in  conversation  with  me  on  sub- 
jects that  would  not  have  interested  her.  But  as 
she  did  not.  I  concluded  it  was  only  from  delicacy 
to  Miss  Morrison's  feelings;  and  still  hoped,  that 
she  would  take  some  opportunity,  when  we  were 
alone,  to  say  as  much.     But,  although  there  were 


A  MOTHEH  AXD    DAUGHTER.  71 

many  opportunities,  nothing  of  the  kind  was  said, 
or  hinted  at. 

Mrs.  W.  had  several  little  jobs  to  be  done  during 
the  vacation,  in  which  she  requested  our  assist- 
ance. This  we  both  willingly  gave:  and  nothing 
would  have  gratified  me  more  than  rendering  my- 
self useful  to  her.  But,  in  almost  every  tiling  we 
undertook,  Miss  Morrison  succeeded  better  than 
I.  She  did  things  more  adroitly,  and  readily, 
notwithstanding  my  anxiety  to  do  my  best.  Mrs. 
W.j  I  saw,  was  pleased  with  her;   especially  as  in 

all  she  did  her  manner  was  so  obliging   and  atten- 
ds     o 

tive.  At  last,  I  thought  of  something  in  which  I 
was  pretty  sure  she  could  not  rival  me.  It  was 
Mrs.  W.'s  birthday;  and  I  determined,  foolish  as 
I  was,  to  write  some  verses  on  the  occasion.  I 
was  nearly  the  whole  day  about  it;  and  as  soon 
as  they  were  finished,  I  went  to  leave  them  in  her 
closet,  where  she  would  find  them  in  the  evening. 
In  the  closet  I  found  Miss  Morrison,  who  showed 
me  a  large  pile  of  Christinas  bills,  which  she  had 
been  employed  all  day  in  casting  up  for  Mrs.  W. 
At  supper  time,  Mrs.  W.  came  down,  with  a 
kind  smile  on  her  face,  my  verses  in  one  hand, 
and  these  bills  in  the  other.  And  first  she  thank- 
ed me,  more  than  I  deserved,  for  my  address  to 
her;  and  added,  that  "  it  was  certainly  very  well 
for  a  first  attempt/'  I  cannot  say  this  compli- 
ment quite  equalled  my  expectations;  especially 
as  I  knew  it  was  by  no  means  a.  first  attempt.    But 


72  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

I  was  still  less  satisfied  with  myself  when  she 
said,  turning  to  Miss  Morrison,  "  3Iy  dear,  I  have 
examined  several  of  these  bills,  and  I  find  they 
are  quite  right;  and  I  thank  you:  you  have  been 
very  useful  to  me;  you  have  saved  me  a  great 
deal  of  time  and  trouble  to-day."  Indeed,  mam- 
ma, I  felt  at  that  moment  very  much  humbled; 
and  I  felt  (what  I  believe  Mrs.  W.  wished  me  to 
feel)  that  although  a  better  education  has  cer- 
tainly given  me  the  advantage  of  Miss  Morrison, 
in  some  respects,  yet  that  in  many  useful  quali- 
ties she  quite  as  much  surpasses  me;  and  that 
there  is  by  no  means  so  great  a  difference  be- 
tween us  as  I  vainly  imagined.  I  have  since 
thought  less  of  myself,  and  better  of  her;  and  you 
cannot  think  how  much  easier  and  happier  I  have 
been  since  I  gave  up  all  thought  of  preeminence; 
and  Mrs,  W.,  I  think,  has  been  better  pleased 
with  me. 

I  was  very  glad,  however,  when  the  school  re- 
opened, and  all  my  companions  returned.  Grace 
was  among  the  first  who  arrived;  and  a  happy 
meeting  it  was;  for  you  may  suppose  how  many 
things  we  had  to  say  after  six  weeks5  absence. 
We  have  two  new  scholars  this  half  year.  They 
are  acquaintances  that  Jessy  Cooke  made  in 
London,  and  very  proud  she  is  of  them.  It  was 
in  consequence  of  her  recommendation,  she  says, 
that  they  are  come  to  Mrs.  W.'s.  They  have 
been  at  a  high  school  in  London,  and  are  very 


A    MOTHER   AND    DAUGHTER.  73 

gay,  dashing  girls:  and  they  seem  to  look  down 
with  contempt  upon  every  thing  and  every  body 
here.  I  am  afraid,  indeed,  they  cannot  be  much 
pleased  with  their  new  situation;  for  ?»Irs.  W.  is 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  pay  any  extra  at- 
tention to  young  people  on  account  of  fortune, 
or  fashion,  or  any  thing  of  that  kind:  and,  al- 
though they  have  learned  a  great  many  showy 
things,  they  are  really  not,  as  to  information, 
equal  to  some  of  the  youngest  girls  in  our  school. 
Poor  Jessy  pays  such  court  to  them!  and  at  pres- 
ent is  quite  in  favor;  but  how  long  it  will  last, 
time  will  show. 

I  hope  I  shall  remember  the  advice  Mrs.  W. 
gave  us  on  recommencing  our  pursuits.  u  There 
was,"  she  said,  "  as  we  must  perceive,  a  consid- 
erable difference  in  the  degrees  of  progress  we 
had  severally  made.  And  this  difference, "  she 
begged  us  to  observe,  "  was  not  always  in  pro- 
portion to  our  ages,  nor  to  the  time  we  had  been 
in  the  school,  nor  even  in  proportion  to  our  natu- 
ral talents:  since  some  of  the  younger  ones  had 
overtaken  their  seniors,  and  many  of  slower  parts 
had  got  the  start  of  those  who  appeared  most 
quick  and  promising.  How,  then,  was  this  to  be 
accounted  for?  It  all  depended,"  she  assured  us, 
11  upon  the  degree  of  our  personal  industry;  and 
the  pains  each  one  took  with  herself.  There 
could  not  be  a  greater  mistake  than  expecting 
masters,  and  school-discipline,  to  do  every  thing 
vol.  v.  7 


74  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

in  education.  They  could  do  very  little  indeed, 
without  individual  energy  and  diligence.  It  was 
for  want  of  this,"  she  said,  "  that  so  many  young 
people  leave  a  school  very  little  better,  and  in 
some  respects  much  worse,  than  they  entered  it; 
and  that  so  many  parents  are  disappointed  in 
their  hopes.  To  expect  an  indolent,  thoughtless, 
frivolous  girl,  to  become  cultivated  and  intelligent, 
by  merely  passing,  for  a  few  years,  through  the 
routine  of  even  a  well-conducted  school,  was  as 
unreasonable,  as  to  expect  a  machine  to  perform 
its  functions  without  the  moving  spring.  There 
were  some,"  she  said,  Ct  who  seemed  to  take  it 
for  granted,  that  they  were  always  to  remain  at 
the  lower  end  of  their  class;  and  to  be  satisfied 
that  it  should  be  so.  But,  to  be  in  this  way  con- 
tented with  inferiority,  she  considered  as  one  of 
the  worst  symptoms  of  a  weak  and  indolent  mind. 
She,  therefore,  urged  each  of  us  to  make  redoub- 
led efforts,  and  to  remember,  that  our  welfare  and 
respectability  through  nfe  depend  very  greatly 
upon  the  habits  we  form,  and  the  progress  we 
make  noic."  Dear  mother,  believe  me  your  ever 
affectionate  daughter, 

Laura. 


A     MOTHER     AXD    DAUGHTER.  75 


LETTER  XVI. 


My  dear  Laura, 

Our  friend  Charlotte  has  but  just  left  us;  and, 
although  we  were  all  grieved  to  part,  it  was  with 
no  small  degree  of  satisfaction  that  we  reflected 
upon  the  circumstances  of  her  visit,  unpromising 
as  they  at  first  appeared.  A  sick  chamber  is 
not  the  place  we  should  have  chosen,  wherein  to 
spend  the  cheerful  season  to  which  we  had  been 
looking  forward.  But  I  hope  we  have  all  found 
"  the  house  of  mourning  to  be  better  than  the 
house  of  mirth." 

Kitty  seems  impressed  by  what  she  has  witnes- 
sed: and  I  would  hope  it  is  more  than  the  tran- 
sient thoughtfulness,  which  scenes  of  sickness, 
and  fears  of  approaching  death,  can  scarcely  fail 
to  produce.  At  first,  her  mind  was  oppressed  by 
a  superstitious  belief  that  Charlotte  would  not 
recover;  which,  as  I  afterwards  found,  originated 
with  the  gossip  of  the  servants,  to  which  she  had 
unfortunately  been  exposed  during  my  absence 
above  stairs.  One  related  divers  omens,  and 
presages  of  death,  in  the  house;  which  were  con- 
firmed by  a  wonderful  dream  of  another's.  And, 
although  poor  Kitty  would  not  allow  herself  seri- 
ously to  listen  to  them,  they  produced  insensibly 
an  effect  upon  her  spirits,  and  increased  her  ap- 
prehensions.    Had  the  event  proved  such  as  we 


76  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

had  reason  to  fear,  it  would,  probably,  have  ope- 
rated still  more  powerfully;  and  might  have  oc- 
casioned us  some  trouble  to  convince  her  of  the 
fallacy  of  these  vulgar  prognostics.  How  much 
more  rational  is  it, — how  much  more  pleasing  to 
Him  "  in  whose  hands  our  times  are," — if,  in- 
stead of  regarding  these  unmeaning  suggestions 
of  ignorance,  we  were  in  the  habit  of  contemplat- 
ing those  unquestionable  presages  of  our  mortal- 
ity, presented  to  us  by  nature,  by  experience, 
and  by  the  Holy  Scriptures!  There  we  are  assur- 
ed, that  "it  is  appointed  unto  all  men  once  to  die." 
But  as  we  know  not  at  what  hour  we  may  receive 
the  summons — whether  "  at  noon,  at  midnight,  or 
at  the  cock-crowing,"  it  behooves  us  ever  to 
"watch  and  be  ready."  Regardless  of  the  wind- 
ing-sheet and  the  death-watch,  and  the  dream  of 
superstition,  let  us  listen  to  the  operations  of 
Time,  who,  as  with  a  chisel,  is  heard  every  mo- 
ment chipping  off  a  portion  of  our  short  life  in  the 
ticking  of  the  clock.  To  the  slow  funeral,  and 
tolling  bell,  let  us  pay  the  most  solemn  attention; 
as  these  are  monitors  of  our  own  mortality,  whose 
warning  voice  admits  of  no  mistake.  May  a  well- 
founded  hope  of  future  happiness  enable  us  all  to 
contemplate  such  subjects  without  dismay! 

When  any  considerable  change  takes  place 
in  the  sentiments  of  a  young  person,  even  though 
that  change  be  for  the  better,  it  is  generally  at- 
tended by  some  views  that  are  erroneous  or  ex- 


A    MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER.  77 

travagant.  Charlotte  came  hither  with  a  mind 
evidently  prejudiced  against  us,  or  rather,  against 
the  religion  we  profess.  We  rejoice  on  our  own 
account,  as  well  as  on  hers,  that  she  has  been 
induced  to  change  her  opinion.  But,  in  going 
from  one  extreme,  she  has  approached  another: 
and  we  have  had  some  trouble  to  moderate  and 
regulate  her  feelings.  With  the  enthusiasm  of 
her  age,  she  would  now  estimate  us  as  the 
standard  of  perfection;  and,  as  the  price  of  her 
approbation  and  good  will,  would  require  in  others 
such  an  exact  conformity  to  our  manners  and 
opinions,  as  it  is,  indeed,  unreasonable  to  expect. 
Beneath  our  roof,  almost  exclusively,  she  imag- 
ines she  could  spend  her  days  in  tranquillity. 
The  most  trivial  circumstances  connected  with  us 
assume,  in  her  estimation,  something  of  import- 
ance. Among  the  many  unhappy  consequences 
to  which  such  feelings  tend,  was  the  extreme  pain 
with  which  she  thought  of  quitting  us.  She  also 
thought  of  the  society  of  her  aunt,  with  more  dis- 
taste than  even  the  want  of  congeniality  in  their 
present  views  would  warrant:  and  anticipated  her 
return  home  with  feelings  not  entirely  calculated 
to  promote  the  happiness  of  cither.  We  endeav- 
ored to  convince  her,  that  without  the  utmost 
circumspection,  she  might  rather  prejudice  the 
cause  of  true  religion  than  promote  it:  as  many 
well-meaning  persons  do,  by  cherishing  a  zeal 
without  prudence.  We  reminded  her  of  the  obli- 
7* 


78  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

gat  ions  she  was  under  to  one,  who  had,  at  least, 
discharged  her  duty  towards  her  according  to  her 
own  notions  of  it;  that  even  the  pains  she  had 
taken  in  introducing  her  to  the  gay  world  with 
advantage,  was,  in  her  estimation,  acquitting 
herself  of  one  part  of  her  trust;  that,  although 
too  much  immersed  in  the  pleasures  of  the  world, 
she  still  possessed  many  estimable  qualities;  and 
had  many  demands  upon  her  niece's  gratitude  and 
affection .  We  represented  to  her  the  great  im- 
portance of  making  it  evident,  that  the  new  views 
she  had  received  tended  to  render  her  more  amia- 
ble and  affectionate,  and  not  less  so.  In  avoiding 
sinful  compliances,  we  entreated  her  to  let  it  ap- 
pear that  it  was  always  for  conscience'  sake, 
never  from  a  spirit  of  perverseness  or  caprice. 
By  such  prudent  and  gentle  conduct  we  encour- 
aged her  to  hope,  that,  with  the  divine  blessing, 
the  happiest  consequences  might  follow. 

All  this  was  said,  and  much  more,  before  we 
could  reduce  Charlotte  to  that  temper  of  mind  in 
which  we  wished  her  to  return  home;  although 
gratitude,  and  sincere  affection  for  her  aunt, 
aided  us  in  pleading  her  cause.  There  is  a  de- 
gree of  inflexibility  in  Charlotte's  temper,  which 
sometimes  leads  her  into  a  spirit  of  argument  and 
disputation  not  quite  consistent  with  her  years. 
I  have  witnessed  a  strong  contest  between  these 
and  other  faults  in  her  character,  and  those  right 
and  powerful  principles  by  which,  I  trust,  she  is 


A  MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  79 

sincerely  influenced.  How  does  Christianity  re- 
fine and  exalt  the  character!  It  is  but  a  few 
months  since  all  her  pleasures  were  circumscribed 
within  the  narrow  limits  of  twenty  years;  for,  she 
said,  she  could  not  conceive  of  being  happy  after 
she  had  past  her  meridian;  although  numbers  are 
eager  in  the  pursuit  of  earthly  happiness  long 
after  that  period,  of  which  she  might  have  seen 
a  striking  instance  in  her  poor  aunt.  But  now 
(provided  her  impressions  are  real  and  perma- 
nent) every  period,  every  condition,  promises 
solid  satisfaction.  She  can  contemplate  the  time 
with  cheerfulness,  when  every  outward  grace  shall 
have  faded;  and  even  when  she  shall  stand  on 
the  brink  of  Jordan,  and  be  about  to  quit  these 
mortal  shores.  She  no  longer  views  the  short 
period  of  twenty,  or  forty,  or  seventy  years,  as 
the  termination  of  her  happiness.  Her  prospects 
extend  beyond  the  ken  of  mortal  eye:  they  are 
boundless  as  eternity. 

I  have  not,  you  will  be  assured,  my  dear 
Laura,  detailed  the  circumstances  of  this  visit,  to 
gratify  an  idle  curiosity,  but  in  the  hope  that  you 
also  may  derive  some  improvement  from  the  salu- 
tary lesson.  In  the  meantime,  I  am  very  glad  to 
find  that  you  are  receiving  other  lessons,  of  great 
importance  to  the  formation  of  your  character; 
although  like  this,  and  like  most  salutary  lessons, 
not  unattended  with  pain. 

Your  affectionate  Mother. 


80  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 


LETTER  XVII. 

My  dearest  Mother, 

This  is  a  fine  spring  morning:  the  air  is  as  soft, 
and  the  sky  as  blue,  as — what  shall  I  say? — as  the 
sky  and  air  on  a  spring  morning.  It  is  still  early; 
and  I  have  been  walking  in  the  garden,  which  is 
now  quite  gay  with  snowdrops  and  crocuses,  vio- 
lets and  primroses.  My  heart  bounded  with  joy. 
1  thought  of  home  and  of  midsummer,  as  I  always 
do  when  I  am  particularly  happy;  and,  after  taking 
a  turn  or  two,  hastened  in  to  begin  a  letter  to  you, 
while  I  am  in  a  mood  for  writing.  There!  the 
bell  rings!  so,  good-by  till  evening,  when  I  hope 
to  be  with  you  again. 

Seven  o'clock. — Now,  my  dear  mamma,  for  a 
little  chat  with  you!  I  forget  what  I  was  going  to 
write  about  this  morning;  so  must  only  tell  you, 
that  since  you  heard  last  we  have  raised  a  little 
contribution  among  ourselves  for  the  Bible  Socie- 
ty. This,  I  know,  will  please  you;  but  you  will 
be  surprised,  perhaps,  to  hear,  that  it  was  first 
proposed  by  those  fine  ladies,  Jessy  Cooke's 
friends,  of  whom  I  told  you.  They  informed  us 
how  it  used  to  be  conducted  in  the  school  they 
have  left;   and  inquired  if  we  had  not  seen  in  the 

printed  list,  "Young  ladies  at  Mrs. seminary 

11.  7s."  It  was  soon  agreed,  that  we  should  like 
\ery  much  to  do  something  of  the  kind,  if  Mrs.  W 


A   MOTHER  AND   DAUGHTER.  81 

had  no  objection.  The  ladies,  however,  advised, 
not  to  mention  it  to  Mrs.  W.  till  we  had  organized 
the  society  ourselves.  We  must  form  a  committee, 
they  said,  and  appoint  a  treasurer  and  a  secretary; 
and  it  was  determined,  that  we  should  call  it 
"  The  Juvenile  Ladies'  Branch  Bible  Association." 
This  gave  general  satisfaction,  and  we  were  pro- 
ceeding very  eagerly  to  business,  when  Grace 
interrupted  us,  for  a  moment,  by  saying,  "  There 
is  a  pretty  little  girl  who  calls  here  sometimes 
with  water-cresses.  I  saw  her  this  morning,  as  I 
was  crossing  the  hall,  and  asked  her  if  she  could 
read;  she  said,  'Yes:5  I  then  asked  her  if  she 
could  read  in  the  Bible;  and  she  said,  '  O,  yes: 
she  was  a  very  good  scholar,  but  she  had  not  got 
a  Bible,  nor  her  mother  either.' — Shall  we  give 
her  one,  then?"  said  Grace:  "  Will  you" — 
(speaking  to  the  elder  of  the  sisters) — "  will  you 
be  half  the  expense  with  me?"  "  I  '11  think  of  it," 
said  she:  "  perhaps  I  may;  though  I  don't  know 
why  I  should,  in  particular:  indeed,  at  present  I 
have  very  little  to  spare;  besides,  we  are  just  now 
talking  of  something  quite  different."  "  Not 
quite  different,  is  it?"  said  Grace.  "  If  our  ob- 
ject is  to  give  poor  people  Bibles,  it  is,  you  know, 
exactly  the  same  thing:  but  if  we  are  only  wishing 
for  the  fun  or  the  credit  of  having  a  '  Juvenile  La- 
dies'  Branch  Bible  Association,'  it  is,  certainly,  as 
you  say,  quite  different."  Little  Phillis  Parker 
jogged  my  elbow  as  Grace  said  this:  but  no  other 


82  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

notice  was  taken,  I  believe.  They  went  on  talk- 
ing very  fast  about  their  plan,  and  Grace  did  not 
press  it  any  further.  I  know,  however,  that  the 
little  girl  had  a  new  Bible  given  her  the  next 
time  she  called;  and  jet  Grace  was  accused  of 
want  of  zeal  about  the  subscription.  The  next 
thing  was  a  droll  dispute  between  the  two  sisters 
concerning  the  offices  of  treasurer  and  secretary; 
they  both  preferring  the  former.  Words  ran  pret- 
ty high;  till  one  of  the  little  ones  ventured  to 
come  forward,  and  say,  "  She  thought  Miss 
Dacre  deserved  to  be  secretary,  or  treasurer,  or 
something."  Grace  smiled,  and  said,  "  Thank 
you,  my  dear;  I  have  no  wish  to  be  either." 
The  ladies,  however,  thought  it  safest,  I  suppose, 
after  that,  to  defer  their  dispute;  and  they  said, 
both  at  once,  "  Well,  at  least,  Miss  Dacre,  we 
must  have  you  on  the  committee."  Just  at  that 
instant  Mrs.  W.  entered  the  room.  She  looked 
rather  surprised,  and  said,  "  Committee!  my 
dears,  what  committee?"  The  two  London  ladies, 
and  Jessy,  and  one  or  two  others,  began  immedi- 
ately, and  altogether,  to  explain  the  affair;  and  to 
request  her  permission  and  patronage.  Mrs.  W. 
quite  approved  of  our  design;  but,  she  said,  that 
as,  if  some  one  would  undertake  to  receive  the 
subscriptions,  all  the  business  would  be  done,  she 
did  not  see  the  necessity  for  calling  a  committee, 
or  for  taking  any  further  trouble  about  it.  At 
that,   although   we  had  nothing   to  object,  many 


A  MOTHER  AXD  DAUGHTER.  83 

looked  disappointed;  and  I  really  believe  the 
whole  affair  would  have  dropped  then,  if  Airs.  W. 
had  not  taken  it  up  herself,  and  fixed  a  time  for  us 
to  pay  our  subscriptions. 

When  the  time  came,  the  ladies  who  first  pro- 
posed it  were  first  applied  to.  They  mentioned 
the  sum  they  intended  to  subscribe,  which  was 
very  handsome:  and  requested  3Irs.  W.  to  pay 
it,  and  their  papa  would  settle  it  for  them,  as  they 
could  not  then  spare  any  thing  from  their  own 
allowance.  But  Mrs.  YV.  said  she  did  not  ap- 
prove of  receiving  it  so;  she  wished  such  affairs 
to  be  entirely  voluntary.  Those  who  thought  they 
could  not  afford  to  contribute  were  at  liberty  to 
decline  it,  or  to  give  as  small  a  sum  as  they 
pleased.  Our  parents,  she  said,  contributed,  if 
they  thought  proper,  for  themselves;  but  this  was 
our  concern;  and  from  our  own  private  purses 
only  she  would  receive  it.  Upon  this,  both  the 
sisters  eagerly  assured  Mrs.  W.  that  they  were 
sure  their  papa  would  not  have  the  smallest  pos- 
sible objection;  for  he  always  particularly  desired 
they  should  do  every  thing  of  the  kind  that  was 
customary,  but  never  expected  them  to  give  char- 
ity out  of  their  allowance.  And  the  younger  said 
to  me,  in  a  scornful  whisper,  "  Dear!  as  if  such  a 
trifle  as  that  were  any  object  to  papa!" 

Mrs.  W.,  however,  persisted  in  her  refusal; 
and  proceeded  to  receive  our  contributions,  with- 
out applying  to    them  again.     She  did    not  then 


84  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

stay  to  explain  herself  further,  and  took  no  notice 
of  the  discontent  which  was  very  evident  in  some 
quarters:  but  on  Sunday  evening,  when  she 
always  spends  some  time  in  conversation  with  us, 
she  introduced  the  subject.  She  was  speaking 
of  the  importance  of  self-examination,  and  said, 
11  That  if  this  exercise  was  needful  when  we  are 
conscious  of  having  done  ivrong,  it  was  doubly  so 
when  we  imagine  that  we  have  done  right:  be- 
cause conscience  will  often  do  the  work  for  us 
in  the  former  case,  but  in  the  latter,  it  sometimes 
leaves  us  to  gross  self-deception.  In  these  times," 
she  said,  "  when  it  is  so  much  the  fashion  to  do 
good,  there  is  so  great  danger  of  it,  that  we  can- 
not be  too  watchful  or  too  jealous  of  our  motives. 
It  was  particularly  on  this  account,"  she  added, 
"  that  I  objected,  the  other  day,  to  receiving  any 
subscriptions  but  from  your  own  purses,  that  you 
might  have  an  opportunity  of  ascertaining  wheth- 
er your  zeal  was  genuine.  If  you  were  unwilling 
to  deny  yourselves  some  little  gratification,  for 
the  sake  of  the  good  cause,  you  may  be  certain 
that  it  was  not  so.  There  are,  indeed,  many 
ways  in  which  our  sincerity  may  be  put  to  the 
proof.  Suppose,  for  instance,  we  know  that  a 
poor  neighbor  is  without  a  Bible: — if  that  circum- 
stance gives  us  no  pain, — if  we  make  no  effort  to 
furnish  one,  while,  at  the  same  time,  we  are  very 
anxious  for  our  names  to  appear  in  a  public  sub- 
scription, we  can  be  at  no  uncertainty  whether 


A   MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  85 

our  motives  are  good  or  bad.  Let  us  never  take 
credit  to  ourselves  for  that  charity  which  costs  us 
nothing,  —  no  sacrifice  of  our  own  pleasure  or 
convenience;  much  less  for  that  by  which  we 
gain  credit  and  applause.  There  cannot,  there- 
fore, in  my  opinion,"  said  she,  "be  a  more  inju- 
dicious indulgence,  than  for  parents  to  pay  their 
children's  charities*  For  the  same  reasons,  it  is 
always  desirable  to  conduct  concerns  of  this  kind 
with  as  little  noise  and  bustle  as  possible.  You 
would  have  found  some  amusement,  I  dare  say, 
in  calling  your  committee,  and  giving  yourselves 
a  long  name;  and  in  an  affair  of  a  different  nature, 
I  might  not  have  thought  it  worth  while  to  spoil 
your  pleasure:  but  we  should  never  trifle  in 
serious  things;  and  it  is  of  great  consequence 
that  we  learn  to  distinguish  between  the  trifling 
and  the  real  in  every  thing;  especially  when  there 
is  any  danger  of  mistaking  childish  parade  for 
christian  benevolence.  In  simply  paying  your 
contributions  to  me  there  was  little  fear  of  mis- 
take. If  you  are  conscious  that  you  made  the 
effort  with  a  willing  mind,  it  was  doubtless  an  ac- 
ceptable sacrifice  to  Him  who  '  loves  a  cheerful 
giver,'  however  small  the  gift. 

"  The  active  spirit  of  the  present  times,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  W.,  (i  is,  happily,  not  confined  to 
men  or  women.  Young  people,  and  even  child- 
ren, are  honored  by  being  allowed  to  unite  their 
efforts.  But  this,  advantageous  as  it  is,  exposes 
vol.  v.  8 


86  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

them  to  some  peculiar  temptations;  against  which 
they  cannot  too  vigilantly  watch  and  pray." 

So  much,  mamma,  for  oar  Bible  Society!  — 
"  How  well  it  is,  "  said  Grace,  "that  views  and 
motives  cause  no  fluctuation  in  the  value  of  money 
and  Bibles!" 

I  must  now  only  add,  that  I  am  your  affec- 
tionate 

Laura. 


LETTER  XVIII. 

I  am  never  more  forcibly  reminded  of  my  dear 
Laura  than  on  a  sabbath  day,  when  I  see  so  many 
young  people  enter  their  pews,  and  engage  in  the 
solemn  acts  of  devotion  to  that  Being  who  has  pro- 
mised to  regard  the  voung  worshipper;  who  at  the 
same  moment  is  listening  to  the  devout  aspirations 
of  multitudes,  and  I  would  hope,  among  the  num- 
ber, to  those  of  my  dear  child  also.  Yet,  I  con- 
fess, there  is  an  occasional  sigh  extorted  from  me, 
when  I  witness  the  nods,  whispers,  and  significant 
looks,  which  are  sometimes  exchanged  among 
them  during  the  time  of  worship,  when  they  can 
conveniently  elude  the  eyes  of  others;  forgetful 
of  that  Eye  from  which  no  vigilance  can  conceal 
them — that  Presence  to  which  they  are  now  mak- 


A   MOTHER   AND    DAUGHTER.  87 

ing  a  more  direct  approach.  When  you  went  with 
your  parents,  and  the  multitude,  "  to  keep  a  holy 
day,"  it  was  our  constant  aim  to  impress  you  with 
the  solemnity  of  the  sacred  season;  that  in  enter- 
ing these  earthly  courts,  you  might  consider  them 
as  no  less  than  "  the  house  of  God,  and  the  gate 
of  heaven."  We  hope  that  no  change  of  situation, 
or  of  society,  has  tended  to  erase  those  impressions 
from  your  mind. 

When  Solomon,  at  the  dedication  of  the  temple, 
had  concluded  his  affecting  prayer,  then  "  the  glory 
of  the  Lord  filled  the  house:"  but  although  no 
visible  glory  now  appears  to  dazzle  our  senses, 
yet  on  those  pious  persons  who  approach  His 
footstool  in  sincerity,  He  sheds  a  radiance  still 
more  benign;  even  by  "  lifting  up  upon  them 
the  light  of  his  countenance:"  and  those  who 
do  not  participate  in  these  favors  are  informed  of 
the  reason  of  their  being  "  sent  empty  away;" — 
they  ask  and  receive  not,  because  they  ask  amiss. 

How  delightful  it  would  be,  when  we  hear  so 
many  soft  and  melodious  voices  uniting  in  songs 
of  praise,  could  we  hope  that  their  hearts  were  all 
in  unison  with  the  sweet  melody!  This,  indeed, 
would  be  like  "  a  little  heaven  below;"  and  would 
make  us  exclaim,  "  it  is  good  for  us  to  be  here!" 

There  is  little  hope  that  those  who  are  inat- 
tentive in  the  duties  of  prayer  and  praise  should 
derive  any  essential  benefit  from  the  word  preach- 
ed: indeed,  there  is  great  reason  to  fear,  that  they 


88  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

are  proportionally  remiss  in  their  attention  to  it, 
not  listening  to  the  word  of  God,  graciously  com- 
municated to  us  by  a  human  instrument;  nor  re- 
garding their  minister  as  one  devoted  to  their  best 
interests:  yet  this  is  the  case;  and  those  who  des- 
pise or  disregard  his  instructions,  grossly  affront 
the  majesty  of  Heaven,  who  has  commissioned 
these  His  servants  to  proclaim  the  glad  tidings  of 
salvation  to  all;  and  it  is  at  our  own  peril  that  we 
neglect  the  message. 

Cultivate  then,  my  dear  Laura,  as  you  have 
ever  been  taught,  a  high  esteem  and  veneration 
for  all  faithful  ministers,  "  for  their  works'  sake." 
Cherish  a  filial  regard  for  them,  as  for  your  spirit- 
ual fathers;  as  those  who  provide  for  you,  "not 
the  meat  which  perisheth,  but  that  which  shall  en- 
dure to  eternal  life."  I  know  it  is  unnecessary  to 
recommend  our  dear  pastor  to  your  affectionate 
respect;  who  watches  over  the  children  of  his 
flock  with  paternal  solicitude,  and  in  whose  re- 
membrance, though  far  away,  you  still  share  a 
place. 

I  am  glad  Mrs.  W.  interfered,  as  she  did,  in 
your  Bible  subscription  business.  Perhaps,  if 
that  had  succeeded,  the  next  proposal  would  have 
been  for  one  of  you  to  make  a  speech  on  the  oc- 
casion. The  method  she  adopted  was  well  calcu- 
lated to  evince  in  what  motives  the  wish  originated. 
The  propagation  of  religion  is  the  most  important 
of  all   concerns;  and  in   such    a   cause,  I   hope 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  89 

your  zeal  will  ever  be  lively  and  effective.  But 
remember,  that  in  proportion  to  our  sense  of  the 
value  of  the  Bible,  our  obligations  arise  to  live, 
ourselves,  under  its  influence.  Even  the  Apostle 
Paul  was  anxious  "lest  while  preaching  to  others, 
he  himself  should  become  a  castaway."  In  esti- 
mating our  religion  by  the  number  of  Bibles  we 
distribute,  we  should  be  little  wiser  than  those 
who  reckon  their  devotions  by  their  beads.  It 
would  be  very  inconsistent  if,  while  we  are  exer- 
ting ourselves  with  so  much  energy  to  render  the 
sacred  volume  intelligible  to  foreign  nations,  we 
should  suffer  it  to  remain  "  a  sealed  book"  to 
ourselves, — its  divine  truths  unstudied,  and  never 
made  the  subject  of  prayer.  There  is,  however, 
reason  to  fear,  that  it  may  have  found  access  to 
distant  climes  by  means  of  some  whose  minds  it 
has  never  enlightened,  whose  lives  have  not  been 
regulated  by  its  precepts.  While  we  are  "  break- 
ing up  the  fallow  ground  "  of  heathen  lands, 
sowing  the  good  seed,  planting  the  lily  and  the 
rose  in  some  wilderness,  it  behooves  us  to  be 
earnestly  solicitous  that  our  own  soil  does  not  lie 
uncultivated,  overgrown  with  briars,  thorns,  and 
noxious  weeds.  It  will  eventually  avail  us  but 
little  indeed  to  have  sent  civilisation  among  sav- 
age tribes,  ourselves  remaining  uncivilized, — if 
rugged  tempers  and  imperious  spirits  are  unsub- 
dued, and  if  we  appear  destitute  of  that  genuine 
refinement  which  adorns  the  christian  character. 
8* 


90  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

Let  not  those  who  are  affording  others  "  a  light 
to  their  feet,  and  a  lamp  to  their  paths,"  be  con- 
tent themselves  to  grope  in  darkness;  or  to  fam- 
ish, while  they  are  distributing  so  plentiful  a  feast. 
Here,  eminently,  is  an  instance  in  which  "  charity 
should  begin  at  home;"  though,  when  once  be- 
gun, it  will,  assuredly,  not  end  there. 

We  hope  to  gratify  you  occasionally  by  taking 
you,  by  and  by,  to  witness  some  of  the  public 
transactions  in  this  great  cause;  as  they  are  an- 
imating and  improving  occasions.  And  yet,  per- 
haps, our  own  domestic  circle  is  better  calculated 
to  cherish  those  virtues  which  should  adorn  your 
sphere,  than  the  attendance  on  public  assemblies, 
whatever  be  their  object.  A  lecture  from  your 
father's  armed-chair  may,  probably,  prove  more 
beneficial  to  you,  than  the  most  eloquent  harangue 
from  any  other  chair,  however  illustriously  filled. 

The  opening  of  the  spring  flowers  has  not  fail- 
ed to  remind  me  of  midsummer,  as  well  as  you, 
my  dear  girl!  But  it  is  still  distant;  and  at  pre- 
sent, let  us  be  chiefly  intent  upon  improving  the 
precious  interval. 

Your  Mother. 


A  MOTHER   AND   DAUGHTER.  91 


LETTER   XIX. 

My  dear  Mother, 

If  you  could  see  how  evenly  our  days  pass,  and 
with  what  order  and  regularity  we  live,  notwith- 
standing our  number  and  the  many  things  to  be 
attended  to, — you  would  not  be  surprised  that  I 
should  sometimes  feel  at  a  loss  how  to  fill  a  letter. 
Do  not  suppose,  however,  that  I  feel  this  weari- 
some; not  at  all,  I  assure  you.  The  less  inter- 
ruption there  is  in  our  employments,  the  more 
pleasant  and  interesting  they  become.  Indolence, 
I  think,  brings  its  own  punishment,  sooner  than 
almost  any  other  fault.  If  I  am  careless  and  in- 
attentive even  for  an  hour  or  two,  every  occupa- 
tion appears  irksome;  but  all  goes  on  pleasantly 
while  I  am  taking  pains  and  exerting  myself. 

Those  who  regard  all  their  employments  as 
tasks  to  be  got  over  as  easily  as  possible,  with  as 
much  assistance  as  they  can  get,  and  who  do  no 
more  than  they  are  absolutely  compelled  to,  find 
the  days  and  weeks  pass  heavily  enough.  They 
are  always  complaining  of  school,  sometimes  even 
of  Mrs.  W.,  counting  the  days  to  the  vacation, 
and  longing  for  the  time  when  they  shall  have 
done  with  school  altogether:  though  I  question 
if  they  will  be  much  happier  even  then. 

We  have  one  tall  girl  here,  who  seems  to  view 
her    pursuits   in   this  way.     Of  course    she    has 


92  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

made  no  great  proficiency  in  any  of  them.  Of 
this  she  is  aware,  and  I  think  it  mortifies  her;  and 
in  order  both  to  amuse  herself,  and  to  avoid  sink- 
ing into  contempt  amongst  us,  she  sets  up  for  a 
wit,  and  makes  it  her  business  to  laugh  at  every 
body  indiscriminately;  not  only  at  her  compan- 
ions, but  the  masters,  the  teachers,  Mrs.  W. 
herself,  and  even,  sometimes,  at  our  good  minis- 
ter. It  evidently  gives  her  particular  pleasure  to 
be  called  satirical;  although,  as  I  have  heard 
Grace  observe,  there  is  no  real  keenness  in  her 
ridicule — no  true  wit  or  humor.  There  is  little 
Phillis  Parker,  who  has  certainly  a  great  deal  of 
wit,  and  can  see  what  is  really  ludicrous  as  soon 
as  any  body,  is  very  sparing  of  her  remarks;  and 
you  never  hear  her  laugh  at  any  one  merely  for 
the  sake  of  it.  Our  poor  music-master  is  a  con- 
stant butt  for  this  lady's  jokes,  which,  indeed,  is 
very  unfeeling,  because  he  is  in  ill  health,  and 
looks  unhappy.  He  has  a  large  family  to  provide 
for,  and  very  little  employment ;  as  there  is  anoth- 
er master  in  the  neighborhood,  who  is  said  to 
teach  in  a  more  fashionable  style;  though  Mrs. 
W.  much  prefers  his  style,  and  says  he  has  more 
scientific  knowledge,  and  much  more  true  taste. 
He  comes  from  several  miles  distance,  twice  a 
week;  and  by  the  time  he  has  been  with  us  an 
hour  or  two,  he  looks  so  fatigued  and  ill,  and  has, 
besides,  such  sad  fits  of  coughing  !  Those  who 
are  fond  of  music,  and  take  pains  with  their  les- 


A   MOTHER    AND   DAUGHTER.  93 

sons,  have  no  time,  as  you  may  suppose,  even  if 
they  had  inclination,  to  amuse  themselves  thus:  but 
those  who  have  no  interest  in  it,  and  dislike  the 
trouble,  are  glad  of  the  diversion  of  laughing  at 
their  master.  I  never  saw  Grace  very  angry  but 
once,  when  some  of  them  were  giggling  behind 
his  chair,  so  loud  that  he  must  have  heard  it. 
She  turned,  and  gave  them  such  a  look,  that  for 
once,  I  believe,  they  did  feel  ashamed.  Grace,  who 
is  his  best  scholar,  uniformly  treats  him  with  atten- 
tion and  respect,  of  which  I  am  sure  he  is  sensible. 

When  first  I  came  to  school,  I  was  in  great  dan- 
ger of  acquiring  that  silly  habit  of  laughing  at 
every  thing,  and  every  body,  which,  I  believe,  is 
almost  universal  among  the  commoner  sort  of 
school  girls:  but  I  see  now,  as  you,  I  remember, 
told  me  in  one  of  your  letters,  that  instead  of  its 
being,  as  they  imagine,  a  sign  of  cleverness,  it  pro- 
ceeds from  vacancy  and  idleness  more  than  any 
thing  else;  and  sometimes  from  envy  and  ill- 
nature.  Mrs.  W.,  too,  has  represented  this  fault 
as  so  contemptible,  that  I  am  now  ashamed  of  it. 

I  received  your  last  letter  very  opportunely,  on 
a  Sunday  morning;  and  I  hope  it  produced  some 
good  effect,  at  least  for  that  day.  Yes,  my  dear 
mother,  there  are,  indeed,  temptations  here  to  levi- 
ty and  carelessness;  and  I  feel  them  as  much  as 
any  one  can.  It  seems  as  though  such  crowds 
of  vain  thoughts  never  occurred  to  me,  as  when  I 
am  in  a  place  of  worship,  when  it  appears  easier 


94  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

to  fix  my  mind  on  any  trifle,  than  on  what  ought 
to  engage  it.  I  am  sure  the  minister  takes  great 
pains  to  gain  our  attention,  and  impress  our  minds. 
His  eye  is  frequently  directed  towards  us;  and 
often,  I  am  afraid,  he  must  be  grieved  by  our  inat- 
tentive appearance. 

I  hope  I  am  in  some  degree  aware  how  impor- 
tant it  is  to  acquire  habits  of  attention  and  com- 
mand of  the  thoughts,  now,  while  habits  either 
good  or  bad  are  so  easily  formed.  I  remember 
hearing  Mrs.  W.  say,  that  she  knew  no  symptom 
more  hopeful  in  a  young  person's  mind,  than  the 
habit  of  resolutely  resisting  vain  and  improper 
thoughts  the  moment  they  were  presented.  There 
was  nothing  good  she  should  not  expect  from  such 
a  character;  nor  any  thing  bad  that  might  not  be 
feared  for  one  who  was  in  the  habit  of  indulging 
them.  I  was  struck,  at  the  time,  with  the  remark; 
and  it  has  often  since  occurred  to  me,  just  in  time 
to  save  me  from  the  danger.  There  is  a  great  dif- 
ference between  the  moment  in  which  a  foolish 
thought  first  presents  itself,  and  the  next,  in  which 
it  must  be  either  dismissed  or  admitted.  This, 
Mrs.  W.  says,  is  the  turning  point  of  temptation, 
— the  moment  when  strength  of  mind  is  every 
thing.  It  is  quite  a  deception,  as  I  have  myself 
found,  to  think  of  indulging  an  idle  thought  only 
for  a  short  time;  if  the  effort  is  not  made  at  first, 
all  is  over;  one  vain  idea  leads  to  another,  and  an- 
other; and  so  time  is  wasted,  and  the  mind  injured. 


A    MOTHER    AXD    DAUGHTER.  95 

We  are  expecting,  every  day,  the  arrival  of  a 
niece  of  Mrs.  W. ;  a  young  lady  whom  she  edu- 
cated, and  who  lived  here  till  within  the  last  two 
years.  I  believe  she  is  now  coming  to  assist  in 
the  school.  She  is  about  a  year  older  than  Grace, 
who  was  here  some  time  before  she  left;  and  they 
were  then  very  intimate.  Indeed,  I  believe,  till 
I  came,  she  was  Grace's  most  intimate  friend.  I 
am  very  impatient  to  see  her.  Farewell,  dear 
mamma. 

Your  affectionate 

Laura. 


LETTER  XX. 

My  dear  Laura, 

As  you  have  found  it  necessary  to  set  a  guard 
upon  your  thoughts,  I  hope  you  are  also  aware  of 
the  importance  of  bridling  "  that  unruly  member, " 
which  "as  no  man  can  tame,"  so  surely  no 
woman  can  be  too  careful  to  restrain.  At  a  female 
seminary,  where  so  many  triflers,  at  a  trifling  age, 
are  assembled,  great  watchfulness,  in  this  respect, 
must  be  needful.  I  was  once  present  in  a  young 
party  (when  I  myself  was  young)  where  unre- 
strained license  had  been  given  to  our  loquacity. 
After  awhile,  one  of  the    company,  more  silent 


' 


96  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

than  tne  rest,  drew  out  her  pencil,  and  wrote 
down,  unobserved,  the  heterogeneous  conversa- 
tion. This  paper  she  afterwards  read  to  us,  and, 
certainly,  each  appeared  ashamed  of  her  own 
part.  This,  though  only  done  in  playfulness, 
might  afford  a  useful  hint  to  every  one  present; 
the  young  lady  herself,  and  other  young  ladies  not 
excepted. 

Those  who  accustom  themselves  to  contemplate 
the  human  character,  especially  with  a  view  to 
their  own,  will  observe  and  lament  the  frivolity 
of  mind  which  characterises  a  large  proportion  of 
society.  The  levities  of  youth  are,  indeed,  some- 
times cured  by  age  and  experience.  Yet  they 
too  frequently  prove  ineffectual;  and  the  frivolous 
character,  as  she  advances  in  life,  after  affording  a 
theme  for  ridicule,  becomes,  at  length,  an  object 
only  of  pity. 

Should  an  intelligent  creature  be  a  trifler?  It 
was  for  no  trifling  purpose  that  we  were  called 
into  existence,  and  placed  in  a  scene  of  action 
and  accountability;  a  state  on  which  the  most 
momentous  consequences  depend. 

Whether  or  not  we  contribute  to  the  welfare 
and  happiness  of  our  immediate  connexions,  who 
depend  upon  us  for  both,  in  a  thousand  ways,  is 
no  trifle.  To  encounter  the  vicissitudes  of  life, 
to  deal  with  the  variety  of  characters  we  meet 
with,  to  engage  in  the  important  service  demand- 
ed of  us,  to  be  prepared  for  the  unexpected  ca- 


A  MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  97 

lamities  to  which  human  nature  is  subject,  are  no 
trifles.  Above  all,  to  be  ready  against,  that  un- 
known hour,  when  Death  shall  demand  us,  is  no 
trifle.  Those,  then,  who  indulge  a  frivolous  tem- 
per, are  ill  prepared  for  their  journey;  and  still 
less  for  their  journey's  end. 

Know,  therefore,  my  Laura,  that  your  ap- 
proaching entrance  into  life,  for  which  we  are  so 
solicitous  to  prepare  you,  is  no  frivolous  concern, 
but  serious  and  important  in  every  point  of  view. 
We  are  training  you  to  live,  not  only  in  this 
world,  but  in  another:  and  as  the  same  duties  as 
ours  may  one  day  devolve  on  you,  we  are  endeav- 
oring to  prepare  you  for  so  arduous  a  work. 

Yet,  do  not  mistake  me:  I  would  not  spread  a 
gloom  over  the  spring  of  life,  nor  wish  you  to 
assume  a  gravity  unsuitable  to  your  age.  The 
playful  vivacity  of  youth  is  ever  pleasing,  because 
it  is  natural;  and  may  be  indulged  without  incur- 
ring the  censure  of  frivolity.  I  say  this  to  caution 
you  against  extremes,  as  it  sometimes  happens, 
that  those  who  are  disgusted  with  the  levity  of 
their  companions,  assume  an  air  and  demeanor 
inconsistent  with  their  years,  and  which  is  more 
calculated  to  excite  dislike  than  respect.  So  dif- 
ficult is  it  to  .observe  a  wise  medium;  so  apt  are 
the  young,  especially,  whatever  habits,  or  notions, 
or  manners  they  adopt,  to  carry  them  to  excess, 
and  to  suffer  those  views  to  be  injurious,  which 
are  calculated  to  be  beneficial  to  the  character. 
vol.  v.  9 


98  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

I  would  hope,  however,  that  under  the  mis- 
taken idea  of  its  being  only  innocent  vivacity,  you 
will  never  allow  yourself  to  join  in  any  conversa- 
tion which  reason  and  conscience  would  tell  you 
is  improper,. or  tending  to  impropriety:  but  either 
endeavor  to  give  it  abetter  turn,  or  else  withdraw 
from  the  contagion.  It  would  have  a  very  saluta- 
ry effect  upon  conversation,  could  these  two  op- 
posite but  connected  texts  be  continually  kept  in 
view:  "  Every  idle  word  that  men  speak,  they 
shall  give  an  account  thereof  in  the  day  of  judg- 
ment."—  "To  those  who  speak  often  one  to 
another  (on  divine  subjects)  the  Lord  hearkens 
and  hears,  and  a  book  of  remembrance  is  writ- 
ten." 

We  hope  shortly,  my  dear  child,  by  taking 
such  sweet  counsel  together  with  you,  to  add  to 
the  records  of  that  book,  to  our  own  everlasting 
advantage  and  yours. 

At  a  time  when  you  are  called  to  pay  some  at- 
tention to  the  acquirement  of  external  advantages, 
it  is  necessary  for  you  continually  to  recollect,  of 
how  little  real  advantage  a  graceful  carriage  and 
pleasing  address  will  be  to  you,  unless  the  inter- 
nal graces  are  still  more  carefully  cultivated.  The 
other  day,  I  observed  a  servant  cleaning  some 
plate  with  a  red  powder:  and  on  inquiring  what  it 
was,  was  answered,  "  It  is  a  coarse  rouge,  ma'am, 
like  that  the  ladies  paint  their  faces  with."  I  felt 
mortified  at  receiving  this  information  from  such  a 


A  MOTHER  AXD   DAUGHTER.  99 

quarter,  obtained  doubtless  from  some  lady's  maid. 
I  would  hope  that  among  respectable  society,  there 
are,  comparatively,  few  who  indulge  in  such  a  con- 
temptible practice;  yet,  are  there  not  many  in  all 
classes^of  society,  who,  by  substituting  external, 
appearances  for  internal  worth,  act  as  disingen- 
uous a  part,  as  the  vain  woman  who  attempts  to 
conceal  a  faded  face,  or  a  bad  complexion,  under 
the  borrowed  tints  of  the  lily  and  the  rose  ?  A  hag- 
gard figure  appearing  in  her  native  deformity, 
who  had  before  been  admired  for  the  symmetry 
of  her  form,  and  the  delicacy  of  her  complexion, 
would  excite  disgust  in  proportion  to  the  de- 
gree of  deceit  she  had  practised.  The  most 
effectual  way  of  obtaining  the  approbation  of 
our  fellow  creatures,  and  the  only  way  to  insure 
that  of  our  own  conscience  and  of  God,  is  to  be 
what  we  wish  others  to  think  us:  and  the  reality 
is  generally  as  attainable  as  its  counterfeit. 
There  is  this  essential  difference  between  the 
body  and  the  mind — that,  little  can  be  effected 
by  all  the  labors  of  art  bestowed  on  the  former; 
indeed,  inordinate  pains  often  defeat  their  own 
end,  nor  can  the  most  effective  efforts  be  crowned 
with  permanent  success;  the  labors  of  to-day  will 
be  imperceptibly  undermined  by  the  operations 
of  time  to-morrow:  but  our  intellectual  nature  is 
so  constituted,  that  they  who  labor  on  that  soil 
shall  certainly  reap,  some  thirty,  some  sixty,  some 
a  hundred  fold,  according  to  their  capacities  and 


100  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

opportunities  for  improvement.  Time,  who  is 
hostile  to  all  material  things,  and  equally  friendly 
to  mental  progress,  accelerates  and  carries  on 
his  operations,  in  both  cases,  to  the  borders  of 
another  world.  • 

Notwithstanding,  however,  all  that  can  be  ar- 
gued on  the  subject,  there  will  ever  remain  num- 
berless votaries  of  the  present  moment ;  and  to  such, 
surely,  that  advice  should  be  acceptable  which 
promises  to  aid  their  wishes.  Let  them  know, 
then,  that  the  best  method  to  preserve  a  good  com- 
plexion, is  to  be  careful  of  health.  This  care 
might  be  promoted,  by  such  a  general  knowledge 
of  the  structure  of  the  human  frame,  as  every  one 
should  possess;  and  with  which,  by  judicious  read- 
ing, they  ought  to  be  furnished.  They  would  thus 
be  taught,  that  a  life  of  indolence  is  totally  incom- 
patible with  their  object.  That  daily  exercise  is 
as  essentially  necessary  as  daily  food  or  nightly 
repose;  and  that  habitual  placidity  of  temper  will 
produce  the  happiest  elfects  on  the  countenance. 
These  means  will  prolong  beauty  where  it  exists; 
and  where  it  does  not,  they  will  afford  a  pleasing 
substitute.  Nothing  can  be  more  destructive  of 
personal  graces  than  a  life  of  dissipation:  they  are 
injured  by  it  beyond  all  the  power  of  rouge,  all  the 
inventions  of  vanity  to  repair.  If,  in  the  ball-room, 
personal  charms  appear  in  all  their  brilliancy,  it 
is  there  also  that  they  are  undermined.  Nature 
languishes  and  suffers   premature   defcay,   under 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  101 

the  wear  and  tear  of  a  life  of  pleasure,  and  Time  is 
accelerated  in  his  speed.  The  bodily  powers  and 
mental  faculties  trip  it  down  hand  in  hand,  till 
they  arrive  at  the  bottom  of  the  dance;  the  music 
ceases;  they  quit  the  glittering  scene;  and  sally 
forth  into  the  gloom  of  night. 

Your  affectionate  Mother. 


LETTER   XXI. 

Do  you  know,  my  dear  mother,  since  I  last 
wrote  to  you  I  have  been  very  unhappy,  and,  I  am 
afraid,  very  unreasonable;  and  so,  as  usual,  it  was 
my  own  fault.  I  think  I  mentioned  to  you.  that 
we  were  expecting  Mrs.  W.*s  niece:  and  she 
came  soon  after  I  sent  my  letter.  Grace  and  I 
were  sitting  together,  when  we  heard  the  chaise 
stop  at  the  door.  She  started  up,  and  was  hasten- 
ing out  to  receive  her;  but  recollecting  that  Mrs. 
W.  might  prefer  meeting  her  niece  alone,  she 
returned,  looking  agitated,  which,  for  her,  is  very 
unusual.  In  a  few  moments  I  heard  a  sweet  voice, 
saying,  "  Where  is  Grace?"  Immediately  the  door 
opened,  and  the  most  lovely,  interesting  looking 
girl  I  ever  beheld,  flew  into  Grace's  arms.  I  saw, 
in  an  instant,  how  dearly  they  loved  each  other; 
9* 


102  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

and  how  much  more  deserving  she  was  of  Grace's 
friendship  than  I  could  be.  And,  instead  of  sym- 
pathizing in  her  pleasure  (as  I  certainly  should 
have  done,  if  my  friendship  had  been  as  disinter- 
ested as  I  imagined)  I  felt  jealous  and  miserable. 
They  exchanged  but  few  words  then,  as  she  was 
soon  called  away  by  Mrs.  W.  but  they  were  words 
of  which  I  well  understood  the  meaning.  I  left 
the  room  at  the  same  instant;  for  I  could  not 
venture  to  stay  and  speak  to  Grace,  as  the  tears 
were  in  my  eyes;  and  I  should  have  been  asham- 
ed for  her  to  see  it.  I  therefore  ran  up  stairs  to 
my  own  room,  to  recover  myself;  but  had  not 
been  there  long,  before  I  saw  them  go,  arm  in 
arm,  into  the  garden;  where  they  walked  up  and 
down  a  long  time,  in  earnest  conversation:  while 
I  stood  alone,  watching  them,  and  feeling  so  for- 
lorn! I  was  mortified,  too,  that  the  other  girls 
should  see  (as  I  was  sure  they  soon  would)  Grace's 
preference  for  another  friend:  by  which  I  was 
justly  punished,  for  the  silly  pride  I  had  taken  in 
their  witnessing  our  intimacy. 

The  next  time  Grace  and  I  met,  instead  of  any 
distance  or  indifference  in  her  manner,  such  as  I 
had  anticipated,  she  appeared  exactly  the  same 
as  ever:  but  she  began  at  once  to  speak  of  her 
friend;  and  said,  she  wished  I  was  going  to  stay 
another  half-year,  that  I  might  know  and  love 
her  as  well  as  she  did.  To  that  I  was  silly 
enough  to  reply,   "  No,  Grace,  it  is  much  better 


A    MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER.  103 

that  I  am  going — I  should  only  be  an  intruder." 
At  this,  she  looked  at  me,  for  a  moment,  with 
surprise;  and  then  said,  with  a  smile,  "  Is  this 
Laura,  or  Jessy  V  I  felt  that  I  deserved  this;  but 
still,  to  justify  myself,  I  said,  "  Don't  suppose, 
Grace,  that  I  am  so  unreasonable  as  to  complain 
of  your  loving  another  friend  so  much  better  than 
me:  I  only  thought  it  would  have  been  more  can- 
did if  you  had  told  me  so  before:  I  thought  I 
might  have  deserved  that  confidence."  "  What 
confidence,  Laura?"  said  she;  c'  I  have  told  you, 
many  times,  that  Miss  W.  was  my  friend,  and 
that  I  loved  her  sincerely  :  this  is  all  I  had  to 
say  about  it:  who  told  you  that  1  loved  her  '  so 
much  better'  than  you:"  li  .Nay,"  I  said,  "  I 
needed  not  for  any  one  to  tell  me  that;  for  that 
I  was  sure  it  must  be  so,  as  she  was  so  much  my 
superior."  "  Really,  Laura,"  said  Grace,  "you 
must  have  made  good  use  of  your  opportunity  of 
judging  of  Miss  W.'s  character,  to  know  so  much 
about  her  already.  However,  I  confess  there  is 
one  respect  in  which  she  is  your  superior:  for 
when  we  were  walking  in  the  garden  just  now,  we 
were  talking  about  you  the  greatest  part  of  the 
time;  and  I  was  telling  her  how  much  I  had 
enjoyed  your  friendship:  at  which,  instead  of 
appearing  at  all  displeased,  she  seemed  truly 
rejoiced;  and  said,  how  glad  she  was  that  I  had 
found  such  a  friend."  I  scarcely  know  whether 
this  reproof  was  most  kind  or  severe :   I  could  only 


104  CORRESPONDENCE   BETWEEN 

answer  it  by  my  tears;  and  at  last,  by  entreating 
Grace  to  forgive  my  unreasonableness.  Since 
then,  she  has  taken  care,  by  her  unaltered  man- 
ner, and  constant  affection,  to  convince  me  that 
my  fears  were  groundless:  and  when  she  and 
Miss  W.  are  together,  they  generally  invite  me 
to  join  them,  which  is  very  kind:  and  as  for  Miss 
W.  the  more  I  see  of  her,  the  more  I  must  ad- 
mire her.  But  still,  I  sometimes  distress  myself 
with  thinking,  that  Grace  does  this  more  from  her 
kind  consideration  of  my  feelings,  than  from  in- 
clination: and  there  again  I  am  punished  for  my 
jealousy;  for  if  I  had  not  betrayed  it,  there  could 
have  been  no  room  for  such  a  suspicion. 

Mrs.  W.  knew  nothing  about  it  till  the  other 
day,  when,  happening  to  meet  her  alone,  she 
looked  at  me  and  said,  "  What  are  you  thinking 
about,  Laura?  You  look  uncomfortable/'  The 
thing  was,  that  I  had  just  happened  to  find  Grace 
and  Miss  W.  in  private  conversation;  and  ob- 
served that  they  changed  the  subject  as  soon  as  I 
appeared,  so  that  I  knew  I  had  interrupted  them, 
and  therefore  withdrew  immediately:  this  was  all; 
but  I  suppose  I  looked  a  little  disconcerted, 
though  I  was  not  conscious  of  it.  Instead  of  an- 
swering Mrs.  W.'s  question,  however,  I  burst 
into  tears.  She  inquired  the  cause  very  kindly; 
and  as  soon  as  I  could,  I  told  her  all — all  that  I 
had  felt  about  Grace  and  Miss  W.  She  thanked 
me  for  speaking  so  unreservedly  to  her;  and  said 


A   MOTHER    AND  DAUGHTER.  105 

she  was  glad  I  had  done  so,  as  it  afforded  her  an 
opportunity  of  giving  me  advice,  which  might 
save  me  a  great  deal  of  pain  in  future,  if  I  attend- 
ed to  it.  P  My  dear,"  said  she,  "  I  would  fain 
convince  you,  that  these  little  jealousies,  very 
common  in  youthful  friendships,  defeat  their  own 
purpose  so  entirely,  that  it  is  much  wiser  never  to 
indulge  them.  Suppose  now,  that  when  my  niece 
came,  you  had  not  admitted  a  thought  of  this 
kind;  but  knowing  Grace's  attachment  to  her, 
had  cordially  rejoiced  in  it,  as  you  would  have 
done  if  any  thing  else  had  occurred  to  give  her 
equal  pleasure.  Suppose,  that  when  they  were 
inclined  to  converse  together,  you  had  left  them 
to  do  so  with  open  good  nature  and  cheerfulness; 
confiding,  as  you  have  reason  to  do,  in  their 
friendship:  would  not  the  consequence  have  been, 
that  instead  of  fearing  to  give  you  uneasiness  by 
every  attention  she  pays  to  her  friend,  she  would 
have  admired  your  disinterestedness  and  good 
nature,  and  have  loved  you  just  so  much  the  more  ? 
Laura,"  she  added,  "  there  is  no  way  of  being 
loved,  but  by  being  amiable;  but  when  we  begin 
to  complain  and  fret,  because  we  are  not  loved 
well  enough,  we  cease  to  appear  amiable,  and 
become  troublesome.  Besides,  of  this  we  may 
assure  ourselves,  that,  although  there  may  be 
particular  cases  in  which  our  conduct  is  mistaken, 
or  our  characters  not  understood,  yet,  upon  the 
whole,  our  friends  (those  I  mean  who  really  knoio 


V 


106  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

us)  love  us  as  well  as  we  deserve.  Character 
will,  in  time,  find  its  proper  level  in  the  estimation 
of  others;  and  with  this  just  measure  of  esteem, 
(though  it  may  fall  below  what  our  affection  or 
our  vanity  would  demand)  it  is  eminently  the  part 
of  humility  and  of  good  sense  to  be  contented." 

I  felt  the  truth  of  all  this,  and  from  that  time  I 
resolved  to  subdue  my  jealousy;  and  I  have  in  a 
great  degree  succeeded.  Dear  Grace,  certainly, 
has  done  every  thing  on  her  part  to  remove  it. 
She  is  to  remain  with  Mrs.  W.  one  more  half 
year;  and  I  think  I  shall  soon  be  able  to  say, 
that  I  am  not  only  not  sorry,  but  positively  glad 
that  she  will  have  a  friend  with  her  when  I  am 
gone. 

You  see,  dear  mamma,  that  I  tell  you  all  my 
faults; — no,  though  I  don't  mean  all,  but  some 
of  them.  Indeed,  if  I  were  not  to  write  about 
what  is  uppermost  in  my  mind,  mine  would  be 
such  stiff,  formal  epistles,  that  you  would  not 
like  them  at  all:  besides,  if  I  were  to  appear 
without  a  great  many  faults,  I  know  you  would 
never  believe  me  to  be  your  own  daughter, 

Laura. 


A   MOTHER  AND   DAUGHTER.  107 


LETTER  XXII. 

Could  I  behold  my  dear  daughter,  surrounded 
by  the  gay  group  of  her  associates,  many  an  in- 
teresting and  anxious  reflection  would  be  excited 
in  my  mind,  both  on  her  behalf  and  theirs. 

To  contemplate  a  number  of  intelligent  crea- 
tures rising  into  life,  creates  pleasing  expectations. 
We  long  to  see  their  mental  faculties  keep  pace 
with  their  growing  stature,  that  they  may  become 
valuable  acquisitions  to  society,  which  now  looks 
towards  them  with  just  and  important  claims. 

Many  of  them,  fresh  and  vigorous,  are  com- 
mencing what  affords  promise  of  a  long  journey: 
may  they  choose  the  right  path,  (the  path  of 
wisdom)  and  pursue  a  steady  pace,  without  swerv- 
ing to  the  right  hand  or  to  the  left!  Such  are 
our  fond  hopes;  but  experience  allays  them  with 
fears,  while  we  see  many  a  one  making  hasty  ad- 
vances towards  maturity,  without  a  proportionate 
progress  in  wisdom  and  virtue. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  delicate  form  of  some 
of  the  train  would  excite  apprehensions  that  their 
journey  will  be  short;  that  "the  wind  will  pass 
over  them  and  they  will  be  gone."  Many  a  tale 
of  wo  proclaims,  it  possible,  that  "  a  flower  may 
fade  before  'tis  noon.5'  Youth  then,  interesting 
youth,  inspires  us,  alternately,  with  hope  and  fear; 


108  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

and  justifies  the  salutary  admonition,  to  "remem- 
ber their  Creator "  during  that  advantageous 
season. 

I  should  perceive  some  amid  the  sprightly  train 
on  whom  nature  has  been  lavish  of  her  gifts: 
tc  daughters  like  polished  stones,  polished  accord- 
ing to  the  similitude  of  a  palace."  Can  any  one 
behold  so  many  fair  forms  without  emotions  of 
delight?  How  unwilling  are  we  to  suppose,  that 
the  face  is  not  an  index  to  the  heart! — That  hu- 
mility, meekness,  kindness,  modesty, — every  vir- 
tue, and  every  grace,  has  not  there  its  abode,  to 
increase  in  glory  and  beauty,  when  "  the  earthly 
house  of  this  tabernacle  shall  be  dissolved,"  and 
fall  into  ruins! 

How  is  the  eye  dazzled  by  the  gaiety  of  the 
group!  All  the  tints  of  the  rainbow  are  put  in 
requisition,  in  compliance  with  the  caprices  of 
fancy,  or  the  suggestions  of  taste.  We  perceive, 
perhaps,  here  and  there,  one,  who,  by  the  simpli- 
city of  her  attire,  excites  a  hope  that  she  is  cul- 
tivating those  internal  graces,  on  which  he  who 
regards  not  the  outward  appearance  looks  with 
complacency:  who,  like  "the  king's  daughter," 
we  may  hope,  "  is  all  glorious  within; — her  cloth- 
ing is  of  wrought  gold." 

Some  of  your  number  have  the  gifts  of  fortune, 
are  born  to  higher  expectations  than  the  rest,  and 
may,  therefore,  become  more  extensive  blessings 
to  society.     May  such  "  know  how  to  abound!" 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  109 

that  is,  how  to  use  those  talents  which  Providence 
may  intrust  to  their  disposal:  not  supposing  that 
wealth  is  bestowed  for  the  mere  purpose  of  pro- 
curing the  luxuries  and  splendors  of  life:  nor  for- 
getting that  it  cannot  purchase  peace  of  mind,  or 
health  of  body;  much  less  bribe  the  king  of  ter- 
rors, or  give  a  ransom  for  the  soul. 

Of  the  individuals  composing  this  young  assem- 
blage, we  can  judge  no  further  than  as  external 
appearances  may  indicate.  Their  future  charac- 
ters or  destinations  in  life  are  concealed  from  our 
view.  This  only  we  know,  that  the  human  race 
is  "born  to  trouble:"  we,  therefore,  infer,  that 
each  one,  however  joyous  now,  will  have  a  portion 
of  what  all  are  heirs  to:  that  each  will  have  to 
struggle,  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  with  the 
vicissitudes  and  trials  of  life. 

Some  may  be  called  to  important  services,  and 
more  conspicuous  stations:  how  well  they  will  ac- 
quit themselves,  and  what  figures  they  may  make  in 
the  society  to  which  they  belong,  who  can  fore- 
see? While  it  will  be  the  lot  of  most  (no  unen- 
viable one)  to  pass  through  the  vale  of  life  com- 
paratively unobserved,  exciting  little  notice  but  in 
their  own  narrow  circle. 

But  however  diversified  the  circumstances  of 
these  individuals  may  be,  in  one  thing  they  are 
alike.  Time  carries  on  his  operations  with  im- 
partiality: he  maintains  a  steady  pace,  with  his 
hours,  and  days,  and  months,  and  years.  We 
vol.  v  10 


110  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

can  scarcely  now  realize  the  idea  of  such  spright- 
ly forms  bending  under  decrepit  age,  and  being 
so  metamorphosed  by  his  irresistible  hand.  Hu- 
manity would  weep  over  the  ruins  of  nature,  did 
not  a  cheering  voice  from  Heaven  revive  our 
hopes,  and  bid  us  look  to  another  period,  when 
cc  this  mortal  shall  have  put  on  immortality;" 
when  this  now  pleasing  form,  however  fallen  to 
decay,  shall  be  renovated,  and  rise  from  the  dust 
infinitely  improved,  and  glorious  beyond  our  con- 
ception. But  remember,  "this  strong  consola- 
tion" belongs  only  to  those,  "who  have  fled  for 
refuge,  to  lay  hold  of  the  hope  set  before  them  in 
the  Gospel."  If  this  were,  happily,  the  case  with 
all  of  you,  then,  as  you  now  enter  the  gates  of 
His  earthly  courts  on  the  sabbath,  so,  one  after 
another,  you  would  enter  the  portals  of  His  tem- 
ple above;  each  of  you,  in  due  time,  "appearing 
before  God  in  Zion;"  not  one  missing;  a  lovely 
train,  clothed  in  the  white  and  spotless  robes  of 
your  Redeemer's  righteousness.  But  if  it  be 
true,  that  "  strait  is  the  gate,  and  narrow  the  way 
that  leadeth  to  life,"  and  "that  they  are  few  who 
find  it,"  there  is  cause  for  each  of  you  to  fear, 
lest  you  should  not  be  among  that  few;  lest 
"the  cares  of  the  world,  or  the  deceitfulness  of 
riches,"  or  the  thousand  temptations  that  beset 
your  path,  should  turn  you  aside  into  the  broad, 
frequented  road  that  "  leads  to  destruction." 
Therefore  it  is,  my  Laura,  that  I  so  frequently 


A  MOTHER  AND   DAUGHTER.  Ill 

recall  your  attention  to  these  great  realities;  in 
comparison  with  which,  our  most  favorite  and 
laudable  pursuits  are  "less  than  nothing,  and 
vanity."  That  you  should  become  a  proficient  in 
the  school  where  you  are  placed  is,  indeed,  de- 
sirable; but  it  is  in  the  school  of  Christ,  sitting  at 
His  feet,  and  learning  of  Him,  that  we  are  most 
anxious  to  see  you.  You  were  dedicated  to  Him 
in  infancy:  you  have  been  directed  to  Him  in 
childhood:  devote  your  youth  to  Him  also.  It 
will  be  "  a  sacrifice  of  a  sweet  savor,"  which  He 
will  graciously  accept:  and  then,  whatever  may 
befall  you  in  this  world,  be  assured,  that  He  will 
guide  you  here  by  his  counsel,  and  afterwards  re- 
ceive you  to  glory.  That  this  may  be  the  happi- 
ness of  yourself,  and  of  all  your  dear  associates, 
is  the  earnest  prayer  of  their  sincere  friend,  and 
your  affectionate  Mother. 


LETTER  XXIII. 

Once  more,  my  dear  mother,  and  perhaps  only 
once  more  before  we  meet,  I  sit  down  to  address 
you.  It  is  with  a  strange  variety  of  sensations — 
some  pleasing,  some  painful,  some  quite  indes- 
cribable— that  I  think  of  my  return. 


112  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

I  cannot  help  looking  back  with  regret,  to  the 
time  when  I  first  entered  Mrs.  W.'s  house;  com- 
paring it  with  that,  so  fast  approaching,  when  I 
expect  to  quit  it.  Then,  all  the  advantage,  all 
the  pleasure  were  to  come;  now,  all  is  past;  this 
pleasant  and  important  portion  of  my  life  gone  by 
forever!  and  it  is  now  too  late  to  wish  that  it  had 
been  better  improved. 

Upon  looking  at  the  past  year,  I  find  that  I 
have  no  painful  recollections  but  such  as  arise 
from  my  faults.  It  is  not  the  application,  the 
confinement,  the  privation,  that  either  occasioned 
uneasiness  at  the  time,  or  upon  reflection;  but, 
on  the  contrary,  from  these  I  have  ever  derived, 
and  do  still,  my  chief  satisfaction.  But  that  I  have 
often  been  remiss  and  negligent  in  my  business, 
and  wrong  in  my  temper  and  conduct,  it  is  this  that 
gives  me  pain  to  reflect  upon.  If  the  time  were 
to  come  over  again,  how  differently,  in  some 
respects,  I  should  act!  I  long  to  assure  all  those 
who  are  now  going  to  school,  from  my  own  ex- 
perience, that  the  only  way  to  be  happy  there, 
and  really  happy  when  they  leave  it,  is,  to  improve 
their*  opportunities.  How  far  1  have  done  so,  you 
will  soon  be  able  to  judge.  But,  although  I  hope 
you  will  not  be  greatly  disappointed  in  this  respect, 
yet  I  am  very  certain  that  I  might  have  done  more 
and  better  than  I  have. 

I  am  obliged  to  refer  to  the  pleasure  of  going 
home,  whenever  the  thought  of  parting  with  my 


a  mother  and  daughter.  113 

dear  friends  here  occurs  to  me — with  Grace  and 
Mrs.  W.  especially,  and,  indeed,  all  my  compan- 
ions; for  there  is  not  one  of  them  that  it  will  not 
pain  me  to  part  with:  the  very  idea  of  it  makes 
me  like  them  better  than  I  thought  I  did.  And 
even  the  house,  the  school-room,  the  pleasant 
garden,  where  I  have  spent  so  many  happy  hours, 
I  dread  looking  at  for  the  last  time.  As  for  Grace, 
I  cannot  think  what  I  should  do,  if  it  were  not  for 
the  hope,  that  before  a  great  while  we  shall  see 
each  other  again.  She  has  repeatedly  said,  that 
she  hopes  you  will  allow  me  to  visit  her  when  she 
leaves  school;   and  Mrs.  W  he  thinks  you 

will,  because  she  believes  you  would  wish  our 
friendship  to  continue.  1  also  venture  to  hope, 
that  I  shall  one  day  have  another  pleasure,  and  it 
is  the  greatest  I  can  think  of: — I  mean  that  of  in- 
troducing Grace  to  you,  if  you  should  approve  of 
my  inviting  her.  We  are  to  correspond,  if  you 
have  no  objection.  I  must  tell  you  that  my  jealous 
fit  is  quite  over. 

Do  you  know,  the  two  sisters  from  town  were 
go  good  natured  as  to  ask  me  to  visit  them;  but 
although  I  should  like,  exceedingly,  to  see  Lon- 
don, I  am  not  quite  sure  that  you  would  wish  me 
to  cultivate  their  acquaintance:  besides,  I  would 
rather  go  to  visit  Grace  in  the  deserts  of  Arabia, 
than  see  all  the  curiosities  of  London  and  West- 
minster. 

I  '11  tell  you  something:  that  made  me  melan- 
10* 


114  CORRESPONDENCE    EETWEEN 

choly  for  a  little  while.  Last  week,  a  lady  called 
on  Mrs.  W.,  as  she  was  passing  through  the  town, 
who  had  been  one  of  her  scholars  several  years 
ago.  She  is  now  a  grave  married  woman,  and  had 
two  fine,  rosy,  little  boys  with  her.  Mrs.  W.  was 
very  much  pleased  to  see  her,  and  so  was  she  to 
see  Mrs.  W.  While  she  was  here,  she  came  into 
the  school-room,  where  we  all  were;  and  stood, 
for  some  time,  looking  round  at  every  object  with 
great  attention.  "It  seems  but  yesterday,"  she 
said,  If  since  I  was  here,  a  lively,  happy  school- 
girl, such  as  these.  Do  you  remember,  Mrs.  W., 
what  a  wild  thing  I  used  to  be?  Altered  now, 
you  see!  Ah,  they  were  pleasant  days!  though  I 
did  not  then  know  it.  Young  ladies,"  said  she 
(speaking  to  us),  "  this  is  your  happy  time:  enjoy 
it  and  improve  it.  A  few  years  ago,  I  was,  like 
you,  looking  forward  to  life  very  sanguinely;  but 
now  that  I  know  a  little  better  what  it  is,  I  can 
assure  you  you  must  not  expect  happier  days  than 
these." 

She  then  inquired  of  Mrs.  W.  about  several  of 
her  old  school  fellows;  and  heard  of  some  that 
were  dead,  others  who  had  fallen  into  misfortunes, 
and  of  some  who  were  settled  in  distant  places. 
There  was  one  she  seemed  particularly  interested 
about:  but  Mrs.  W.  only  remembered  to  have 
heard,  that  she  married  years  ago,  and  went 
abroad.  "Poor  Mary!"  said  the  lady.  "Do 
you  remember  what  friends  wre  were,  Mrs.  W.  ? 


A  MOTHER  AND   DAUGHTER  115 

We  used  to  say,  you  know,  that  nothing  should 
ever  dissolve  our  friendship.  We  corresponded 
for  some  time  after  we  left  school;  but  it  fell  off 
at  last: — I  think  it  dropped  with  her — mine,  I 
believe,  was  the  last  letter.  She  was,  like  me,  I 
suppose,  engrossed  by  her  own  affairs.  Such  is 
life,  you  see!"  Here  Grace  and  I  looked  at  each 
other. 

She  next  walked  round  the  garden  and  play- 
ground, and  kindly  invited  us  to  accompany  her. 
"Ah,  the  old  poplars,"  said  she,  "  waving  their  tops 
in  the  biue  sky  the  same  as  ever! — and  yet  I 
thought  they  had  been  taller!  How  this  place 
recalls  old  days,  and  old  sensations!  Every  tree, 
every  shrub,  seems  familiar:  I  could  fancy  myself 
young  again."  Then  she  seemed  lost  in  thought, 
till  her  two  little  boys  came  running  towards  her, 
and  recalled  her  recollections.  When  she  had 
thus  visited  every  spot,  looking  even  at  the  walls 
and  pales,  as  old  acquaintances,  she  took  leave. 
Afterwards,  Grace  and  I,  and  Miss  W.,  had  a 
long,  interesting  conversation,  about  life,  and  hope, 
and  friendship:  you  might  have  imagined  it  was 
fmlac,  and  Rasselas,  and  the  Princess  Nekayah. 
But,  although  we  made  so  many  sage  remarks, 
and  came  to  such  sober  conclusions,  I  cannot  help 
hoping,  especially  when  I  am  in  high  spirits,  that 
I  shall  be  rather  more  fortunate ;  and  in  spite  of 
philosophy,  my  heart  will  sometimes  glow  and  leap 
at  the  fair  prospect  of  youth  and  life  that  seems  to 


116  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

lie  before  me.  Some  people  say  it  is  a  miserable 
world;  and  so  I  suppose  it  is:  but  when  I  look 
round  upon  the  woods  and  fields,  and  hills  and 
trees, — at  the  blue  sky  and  cheerful  sunshine; — 
when  I  hear  the  birds  singing,  and  the  waters 
flowing,  and  feel  my  own  heart  bounding  with 
youth  and  joy, — I  must  say,  it  seems  to  me  a  very 
pleasant  world  indeed! 

Well,  dear  mother,  I  am  now  coming  home,  to 
see  a  little  more  of  it  than  I  have  done  yet.  And, 
notwithstanding  all  this  rambling,  I  am  seriously 
convinced  that  my  real  happiness  there,  as  well  as 
here,  must  depend  upon  my  own  conduct.  I  re- 
joice to  think  that  my  education  is  not  to  be  at  an 
end  when  I  leave  school:  sad,  indeed,  would  it  be 
for  me,  if  I  were  to  make  no  farther  improvement, 
especially  in  those  things  that  are  really  important. 
Mrs.  W.  says,  it  is  a  great  pity  when  leaving 
school  is  considered  as  a  release  from  mental  ex- 
ertion. It  ought  rather,  she  says,  to  be  regarded 
as  the  time  for  making  renewed  efforts:  since  it 
must  then,  in  a  greater  degree  than  ever,  depend 
upon  ourselves  whether  we  sink  into  trifling,  ordi- 
nary characters,  or  rise  to  respectability  and  use- 
fulness. By  renewed  effort,  and  continued  exer- 
tion at  home,  she  does  not  mean  merely  sitting 
down  to  the  instrument,  or  drawing-lesson,  for  an 
hour  or  two  of  a  morning;  but  that  we  should  use 
every  means  for  cultivating  and  strengthening  our 
minds;  and  for  growing  in  wisdom  and  virtue — in 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  117 

grace  and  holiness;  so  as  to  become  useful  and 
happy. 

I  hope  at  leafet,  my  dear  father  and  mother,  you 
will  not  have  cause  to  repent  the  trouble  and  ex- 
pense you  have  bestowed  upon  me.  Now,  that  I 
am  coming  to  be  your  inmate  again,  it  is  my  desire 
to  do  every  thing  in  my  power  to  make  you  com- 
fortable, and  repay  your  kindness; — that,  though, 
I  can  never  do;  I  mean,  rather,  to  show  that  I  am 
sensible  of  it. 

Mrs.  W.  says,  and  I  hope  to  remember  it, 
that  the  order,  comfort,  and  happiness  of  a  family 
very  greatly  depend  upon  the  temper  and  conduct 
of  the  younger  members  of  it,  when  they  cease  to 
be  children;  and  that  she  has  seen  the  declining 
years  of  some  kind  parents  completely  imbittered 
by  the  the  pride,  self-will,  and  inconsiderate  con- 
duct of  their  young  people.  She  says,  also,  that 
when  a  young  lady  returns  home,  if  she  is  not  so 
good  a  daughter  as  she  was  before,  whatever  ac- 
quisitions she  may  have  made  at  school,  she  had 
better  never  have  been  there. 

In  hope  of  a  joyful  meeting  very  soon,  I  remain 
your  dutiful  and  affectionate 

Laura. 


118  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 


LETTER  XXIV. 

My  dear  Child, 

It  might  scarcely  seem  necessary  that  I  should 
send  you  a  long  epistle,  just  on  the  eve  of  your 
return  home.  But  as  it  is  a  very  important  period 
to  you,  and  a  very  interesting  and  anxious  one  to 
me,  you  will  not  be  surprised  that  I  should  wish 
to  improve  this  last  opportunity  of  admonishing 
you  by  letter. 

You  are  about  to  leave  school,  and  to  part  with 
her  who  has  supplied  a  mother's  place;  who  has 
had  the  care  both  of  your  body  and  mind:  and 
the  manner  in  which  she  has  acquitted  herself 
demands  your  lasting  gratitude.  A  proper  ex- 
pression of  it  will  be  gratifying  to  her  feelings: 
let  it  be  such  as  will  at  once  do  credit  to  hers  and 
to  yours. 

You  are  also  to  part  with  your  young  compan- 
ions: from  some,  with  whom  you  have  commenc- 
ed a  friendship  that  promises  to  be  lasting  and 
advantageous,  because  it  seems  to  be  founded  on 
esteem.  I  should,  indeed,  generally,  be  very 
cautious  in  permitting  your  continued  intercourse 
with  them;  because  it  is  not  sufficient  that  I 
should  be  satisfied  respecting  the  young  people 
themselves;    I   must   know,    also,    something   of 


A    MOTHER    AND    DAUGHTER.  119 

their  connexions,  before  I  could  either  admit 
them  here,  or  trust  you  under  the  roof  of  a  stran- 
ger. As  to  your  friend  Grace,  I  should  feel  but 
few  scruples;  the  character  and  conduct  of  a 
young  person  is  no  very  dubious  criterion  of  those 
of  her  connexions.  Yet,  in  a  case  so  important, 
something  more  than  conjecture  is  necessary; 
and  this  is  supplied  by  Mrs.  W.'s  recommenda- 
tion: so  that  you  may  set  your  heart  at  rest  on 
that  subject,  and  indulge  the  hope  of  occasional 
intercourse  with  your  excellent  young  friend. 

While  I  am  upon  this  subject,  I  may  observe, 
that  the  first  visit  of  a  young  lady,  on  her  intro- 
duction into  life,  is  of  more  importance  than  some 
people  seem  to  be  aware  of.  Inexperienced, 
giddy,  and  elated  by  the  novelty  of  her  situation, 
she  frequently,  by  the  levity  of  her  conduct,  and 
her  childish  imprudences,  produces  an  unfavor- 
able impression  upon  her  friends,  which  may  re- 
quire years  of  subsequent  prudence  and  regularity 
to  erase.  Also,  if  great  caution  is  not  observed 
in  the  choice  of  her  acquaintance,  she  is  in  dan- 
ger, from  a  propensity  to  imitation,  of  imbibing 
false  principles,  and  of  acquiring  bad  habits, 
which  cannot  be  unlearned  again  at  home  without 
much  pain  and  difficulty.  Indeed,  there  are  so 
many  snares  besetting  her  in  this  situation,  that 
it  is  well  if  she  be  not  entangled  in  some  of  them. 
She  is,  perhaps,  introduced  to  a  variety  of  stran- 
ger^;    with    some  of  whom  she  may  form  hasty 


120  CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN 

intimacies,  which  afterwards  prove  undesirable. 
The  efforts  which  are  frequently  made  to  amuse 
and  entertain  a  visiter  operate  unfavorably,  by 
dissipating  the  mind,  and  producing  a  disrelish 
for  the  sober  occupations  of  home.  She  is  more 
likely  to  be  flattered  for  her  imaginary  excellen- 
ces, than  to  be  told  of  her  real  faults:  and  the 
natural  consequence  of  all  this  is,  that  her  pa- 
rents, brothers,  and  sisters,  appear  to  disadvantage, 
as  they  cannot,  exclusively,  devote  themselves 
to  her  convenience  and  pleasure.  She  forgets, 
that  were  she  to  become  an  inmate,  instead  of  an 
occasional  visiter,  she  would  cease  to  experience 
those  attentions  by  which  she  is  now  distinguish- 
ed; and  that  she  would  soon  have  to  partake  the 
regular  avocations  of  the  rest  of  the  family.  To 
see  people  as  they  are,  it  is  necessary  to  live  with 
them;  and  by  so  doing,  we  should  frequently  dis- 
cover, that  our  first-sight  favorites  are  not  so 
much  more  excellent  than  our  old  friends,  as  a 
temporary  residence  with  them  had  inclined  us  to 
suppose.  This  is  a  digression;  but  it  may  serve 
at  once  to  moderate  your  expectations,  and  to 
afford  a  useful  hint,  whenever  such  a  circum- 
stance as  a  visit  among  new  friends  may  take 
place. 

But  you  are  returning  home.  It  is  a  compre- 
hensive word,  my  dear  Laura:  upon  your  right 
estimation  of  its  value  greatly  depends  your  fu- 
ture happiness.     It  is  chiefly  there  that  the  lustre 


A    MOTHER   AND    DAUGHTER.  121 

of  the  female  character  is  discernible;  because 
home  is  its  proper  sphere.  Men  have  much  to  do 
with  the  world  without;  our  field  of  action  is  cir- 
cumscribed; yet,  to  confine  ourselves  within  its 
humble  bounds,  and  to  discharge  our  duties  there, 
may  produce  effects  equally  beneficial  and  exten- 
sive with  their  wider  range.  It  is  no  mean  art  to 
be  able  to  govern  well;  and  those  who  have 
proved  most  successful  in  the  attainment,  are  gen- 
erally such  as  have  themselves  submitted  to  be 
governed.  It  is  the  mistake  of  some  young  peo- 
ple returning  from  school,  that  they  think  them- 
selves qualified  immediately  to  take  the  command; 
and  it  is  a  yet  greater  mistake  in  those  mothers 
who  submit  to  it.  As  well  might  "  a  house  be 
broken  down,  and  without  walls,"  as  to  be  left  to 
the  guidance  of  such  a  manager.  She  might  not, 
indeed,  like  her  infant  brothers  and  sisters,  fall 
into  the  fire,  or  into  the  water, — throw  down  the 
china,  or  cut  herself  with  knives  and  scissors;  but 
she  may,  by  her  exploits,  do  what  is  quite  as  mis- 
chievous in  its  consequences,  though  less  instan- 
taneous in  its  effects.  But  you,  my  dear  Laura, 
have  been  trained  from  your  childhood  in  habits 
of  proper  subordination:  and  I  should  deem  such 
observations  altogether  superfluous,  were  it  not 
sometimes  seen,  that  young  persons  at  this  period 
undergo  a  sudden  revolution;  and  from  the  en- 
gaging, meek,  and  tractable  child,  start,  all  at 
once,  into  the  pert,  self-willed  young  lady.  I 
vol.  v.  11 


122  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

must  say,  however,  that  the  spirit  in  which  your 
letters  appear  to  be  written,  leaves  me  little  to 
fear  on  this  subject. 

You  are  returning  home, — I  was  going  to  say, 
not  for  the  purpose  of  enjoying  yourself,  and 
taking  your  pleasure;  but,  to  a  well-regulated 
mind,  the  daily  routine  of  duty  is  enjoyment;  to 
live  a  life  of  usefulness,  is  a  perpetual  pleasure. 
Nor  does  affluence  itself,  where  it  is  enjoyed, 
exempt  from  this  obligation:  it  rather  enhances 
it.  Those  who  suppose  otherwise,  totally  mistake 
the  purpose  for  which  it  is  bestowed;  and  deprive 
themselves  of  the  principal  satisfaction  it  is  in- 
tended to  produce.  Besides,  they  are  unprepared 
for  adversity;  unfit  to  cope  with  the  deprivations 
to  which  they  are  exposed,  who  hold  their  worldly 
possessions,  as  well  as  the  breath  of  life,  by  an 
uncertain  tenure.  No  legal  process  can  so  en- 
sure our  estates,  or  secure  them  from  accident, 
as  to  render  them  certainly  unalienable;  or  pre- 
vent our  "  riches  from  taking  wings  and  flying 
away."  We  may  contemplate  with  pleasure  the 
prospect  of  your  establishment  in  the  world,  in 
the  same  circumstances  of  comfort  which  have  at- 
tended you  hitherto.  But  we  do  not  forget,  that 
it  is  the  world  into  which  we  are  sending  you: 
and  however  well  equipped  you  may  be  for  your 
journey,  we  cannot  foresee  what  may  befall  you 
in  the  course  of  it.  And  whatever  be  your  future 
circumstances,  habits    of  activity   and   economy 


A  MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER.  123 

will  prove  beneficial,  and  will  be  no  disparage- 
ment to  any  station  you  may  fill.  If  such  had 
not  been  our  habits,  perhaps  you  might  have 
lacked  many  advantages  which  you  enjoy  at  the 
present  moment ;  and  your  future  prospects  might 
have  been  clouded  in  the  same  degree. 

Through  the  kindness  of  Providence,  you  are 
returning  to  a  comfortable  home:  but  remember, 
it  is  not  a  jjaracUse.  Your  parents  have  their 
trials  to  harass  their  spirits,  and  ruffle  their  tem- 
pers, as  well  as  others:  and  in  proportion  to  your 
filial  affection,  you  will  participate  in  them;  and 
by  the  tender  sympathy  of  your  deportment,  man- 
ifest that  in  all  our  afflictions  you  are  afflicted. 
Indeed,  my  dear,  there  can  be  no  temporal  alle- 
viation of  our  sorrows,  equal  to  that  which  arises 
from  this  source:  the  cordials  administered  by  the 
tender  hands  of  affectionate  children  possess  the 
happiest  efficacy.  If  some  young  persons  were 
aware  of  this,  surely  they  would  be  more  frequent 
in  the  application  of  them. 

O,  my  dear  Laura,  what  a  blessing  you  may 
prove  to  us!  especially  to  me,  your  mother.  Shall 
I  find  in  my  beloved  child,  as  she  rises  to  matur- 
ity, the  confidential  friend,  with  whom  I  may  take 
sweet  counsel;  and  on  whose  bosom,  as  she  once 
did  on  mine,  I  may  repose  all  my  cares? — One, 
who  will  be  indulgent  to  my  infirmities,  attentive 
to  my  wants,  and  who  will  plant  the  vale  of  life, 


124  CORRESPONDENCE    BETWEEN 

into  which  I  am  gradually  descending,  with  many 
a  flower,  such  as  she  can  gather,  here  and  there, 
from  the  wilderness  around?  What  a  delightful 
sight  it  is  (and  surely  a  natural  one)  when  a 
mother  and  daughter  dwell  together  in  unity!  It 
is  like  the  precious  ointment,  which  descended 
down  the  vestments  of  Aaron,  and  exhaled  a  fra- 
grant odor  all  around. 

Well,  you  are  returning  to  your  father's  house: 
and  this,  in  a  higher  sense,  may,  I  trust,  be  said 
of  us.  The  world  is  the  great  school  wherein  we 
are  each  receiving  our  education:  and  the  pros- 
perity and  adversity  which  we  experience  are  the 
means  whereby  the  great  Governor  trains  us  for  a 
maturer  state.  When  "  He  visits  our  transgres- 
sions with  the  rod,  and  our  iniquities  with  stripes," 
it  is  for  our  final  benefit:  for  "  He  does  not  wil- 
lingly afflict  the  children  of  men."  When  He 
smiles  upon  us  by  His  providence,  when  He  in- 
trusts us  with  various  talents,  it  is  to  prove  us, 
whether  we  will  use  them  for  His  glory  and  the 
good  of  our  fellow  creatures.  Otherwise  He  may 
deprive  us  of  them  entirely;  or,  what  is  worse, 
continue  them  without  His  blessing;  and  desist 
from  fatherly  correction,  saying,  "  Why  should 
they  be  smitten  any  more  ?  —  they  will  yet 
revolt.5' 

We  have  a  task  assigned  us ;  and  the  day  of 
our  dismission  from  it,  although  to  us  unknown, 


A   MOTHER   AND  DAUGHTER.  125 

is  immutably  fixed  by  Him,  who  has  cc  the  keys 
of  death."  May  divine  grace  so  prepare  our 
dear  Laura,  that  when  she  is  summoned  home  by 
her  heavenly  Father,  she  may  obey  the  call  with- 
out reluctance ;  and  earnestly  longing,  as  she  now 
is,  to  return  to  the  abode  of  her  earthly  parent, 
may  she  then  feel  a  still  greater  "  desire  to 
depart,  and  to  be  with  Christ,  which  is  far 
better! 

Your  affectionate  Mother. 


11* 


ORIGINAL    POEMS 


INFANT    MINDS. 


THE    TAYLOR    FAMILY. 


"  In  books,  or  work,  or  healthful  play, 
Let  my  first  years  be  passed  ; 

That  I  may  give  for  every  day 

Some  good  account  at  last."— Wait: 


If  a  hearty  affection  for  that  interesting  little  race,  the  race  of 
children,  is  any  recommendation,  the  writers  of  the  following  pages 
are  well  recommended;  and  if  to  have  studied  in  some  degree 
their  capacities,  habits,  and  wants,  with  a  wish  to  adapt  these 
simple  verses  to  their  real  comprehensions  and  probable  improve- 
ment— if  this  has  any  further  claim  to  the  indulgence  of  the  public, 
it  is  the  last  and  only  one  they  attempt  to  make.  The  deficiency 
of  the  compositions  as  poetry,  is  by  no  means  a  secret  to  their  au- 
thors ;  but  it  was  thought  desirable  to  abridge  every  poetic  freedom 
and  figure,  and  even  every  long-syllabled  word,  which  might  give, 
perhaps,  a  false  idea  to  their  little  readers,  or  at  least  make  a 
chasm  in  the  chain  of  conception.  Images,  which  to  us  are  so 
familiar  that  we  forget  their  imagery,  are  terrible  stumbling-blocks 
to  children,  who  have  none  but  literal  ideas ;  and  though  it  may  be 
allowable  to  introduce  a  simple  kind,  which  a  little  maternal  at- 
tention will  easily  explain,  and  which  may  tend  to  excite  a  taste 
for  natural  and  poetic  beauty,  every  tiling  superfluous  it  has  been 
a  primary  endeavor  to  avoid. 

To  those  parents  into  whose  hands  this  little  volume  shall  happen 
to  fall,  it  is  very  respectfully  inscribed ;  and,  very  affectionately, 
to  that  interesting  little  race — the  race  of  children. 


ORIGINAL    POEMS. 


THE  CHURCH-YARD. 

The  moon  rises  bright  in  the  east, 

The  stars  with  pure  brilliancy  shine  ; 
The  songs  of  the  woodland  have  ceased, 

And  still  is  the  low  of  the  kine. 
The  men,  from  their  work  on  the  hill, 

Trudge  homeward  with  pitchfork  and  flail 
The  buzz  of  the  hamlet  is  still, 

And  the  bat  flaps  his  wings  in  the  gale. 

And  see  from  those  darkly  green  trees 

Of  cypress,  and  holly,  and  yew, 
That  wave  their  black  arms  in  the  breeze, 

The  old  village  church  is  in  view. 
The  owl,  from  her  ivied  retreat, 

Screams  hoarse  to  the  winds  of  the  night ; 
And  the  clock,  with  its  solemn  repeat, 

Has  tolled  the  departure  of  light 

My  child,  let  us  wander  alone, 
When  half  the  wide  world  is  in  bed, 

And  read  o'er  the  mouldering  stone, 
That  tells  of  the  mouldering  dead. 


130  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

And  let  us  remember  it  well, 

That  we  must  as  certainly  die ; 
For  us  too  may  toll  the  sad  bell, 

And  in  the  cold  earth  we  must  lie. 

You  are  not  so  healthy  and  gay, 

So  young,  so  active,  and  bright, 
That  death  cannot  snatch  you  away, 

Or  some  dreadful  accident  smite. 
Here  lie  both  the  young  and  the  old, 

Confined  in  the  coffin  so  small, 
And  the  earth  closes  over  them  cold, 

And  the  grave- worm  devours  them  all. 

In  vain  were  the  beauty  and  bloom 

That  once  o'er  their  bodies  were  spread : 
Now  still,  in  the  desolate  tomb, 

Each  rests  his  inanimate  head. 
Their  hands,  once  so  active  for  play, 

Their  lips,  which  so  merrily  sung, 
Now  senseless  and  motionless  lay, 

And  stiff  is  the  chattering  tongue. 

Then  seek  not,  my  child,  as  the  best, 

Those  things  which  so  shortly  must  fade  ; 
Let  piety  dwell  in  thy  breast, 

And  all  of  thine  actions  pervade. 
And  then,  when  beneath  the  green  sod 

This  active  young  body  shall  lie, 
Thy  soul  shall  ascend  to  its  God, 

To  live  with  the  blest  in  tht  sky.  a.  t 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  131 


A  TRUE  STORY. 

Little  Ann  and  her  mother  were  walking  one  day, 
Through  London's  wide  city  so  fair ; 

And  business  obliged  them  to  go  by  the  way 
That  ied  them  through  Cavendish  Square. 

And  as  they  passed  by  the  great  house  of  a  lord, 

A  beautiful  chariot  came 
To  take  some  most  elegant  ladies  abroad, 

Who  straightway  got  into  the  same. 

The  ladies  in  feathers  and  jewels  were  seen, 

The  chariot  was  painted  all  o'er, 
The  footmen  behind  were  in  silver  and  green. 

And  fine  horses  galloped  before. 

Little  Ann  by  her  mother  walked  silent  and  sad, 

A  tear  trickled  down  from  her  eye  : 
Till  her  mother  said,  Ann,  I  should  be  very  glad 

To  know  what  it  is  makes  you  cry? 

Ah  look !  said  the  child,  at  that  carriage,  mamma, 

All  covered  with  varnish  and  gold, 
Those  ladies  are  riding  so  charmingly  there, 

While  we  have  to  walk  in  the  cold  : 

You  say,  God  is  kind  to  the  folks  that  are  good, 

But  surely  it  cannot  be  true  ; 
Or  else  I  am  certain,  almost,  that  he  would 

Give  such  a  fine  carriage  to  you. 


132  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

Look  there,  little  girl,  said  her  mother,  and  see 
What  stands  at  that  very  coach  door ; 

A  poor  ragged  beggar,  and  listen  how  she 
A  halfpenny  stands  to  implore. 

All  pale  is  her  face,  and  deep  sunk  is  her  eye, 
Her  hands  look  like  skeleton's  bones ; 

She  has  got  a  few  rags  just  about  her  to  tie, 
And  her  naked  feet  bleed  on  the  stones. 

Dear  ladies,  she  cries,  and  the  tears  trickle  down, 

Relieve  a  poor  beggar,  I  pray  ; 
I  've  wandered  all  hungry  about  this  wide  town, 

And  not  ate  a  morsel  to-day. 

My  father  and  mother  are  long  ago  dead, 

My  brother  sails  over  the  sea ; 
And  I  've  not  a  rag  nor  a  morsel  of  bread, 

As  plainly  I  'm  sure  you  may  see. 

A  fever  I  caught  which  was  terribly  bad, 

But  no  nurse  nor  physic  had  I : 
An  old  dirty  shed  was  the  house  that  I  had, 

And  only  on  straw  could  I  lie. 

And  now  that  I  'm  better,  yet  feeble  and  faint, 
And  famished,  and  naked,  and  cold, 

I  wander  about  with  my  grievous  complaint, 
And  seldom  get  aught  but  a  scold. 

Some  will  not  attend  to  my  pitiful  call, 

Some  think  me  a  vagabond  cheat, 
And  scarcely  a  creature  relieves  me  of  all 

The  thousands  that  traverse  the  street. 


FOR  INFANT    MINDS.  133 

Then  ladies,  dear  ladies,  your  pity  bestow ! — 

Just  then  a  tall  footman  came  round, 
And  asking  the  ladies  which  way  they  would  go, 

The  chariot  turned  off  with  a  bound. 

Ah !  see,  little  girl,  then  her  mother  replied, 

How  foolish  it  was  to  complain : 
If  you  would  have  looked  at  the  contrary  side, 

Your  tears  would  have  dried  up  again. 

Your  house,  and  your  friends,  and  your  victuals,  and  bed, 

'T  was  God  in  his  mercy  that  gave  : 
You  did  not  deserve  to  be  covered  and  fed, 

And  yet  all  these  blessings  you  have. 

This  poor  little  beggar  is  hungry  and  cold, 

No  father  nor  mother  has  she  ; 
And  while  you  can  daily  such  objects  behold, 

You  ought  quite  contented  to  be. 

A  coach  and  a  footman,  and  gaudy  attire, 

Can  't  give  true  delight  to  the  breast ; 
To  be  good  is  the  thinir  you  should  chiefly  desire, 

And  then  leave  to  God  all  the  rest.  a.  t. 


THE  BIRD'S  NEST. 

Now  the  sun  rises  bright  and  soars  high  in  the  air, 

The  trees  smile  around  us  in  green  ; 
The  sweet  little  birds  to  the  meadows  repair, 
And  pick  up  the  moss,  and  lamb's- wool,  and  hair, 
To  make  their  nests  soft,  warm,  and  clean. 
vol.  v.  12 


134  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

High  up  in  some  tree,  far  away  from  the  town, 
Where  they  think  naughty  boys  cannot  creep, 
They  build  it  with  twigs,  and  they  line  it  with  down, 
And  lay  their  neat  eggs,  speckled  over  with  brown, 
And  sit  till  the  little  ones  peep. 

Then  come,  little  boy,  let  as  go  to  the  wood, 

And  climb  up  the  very  tall  tree  ; 
And  while  the  old  birds  are  gone  to  get  food, 
We  '11  take  down  the  nest,  and  the  cheruping  brood, 

And  divide  them  betwixt  you  and  me. 

But  ah !  don  't  you  think  't  would  be  wicked  and  bad, 

To  take  their  poor  nestlings  away ; 
And  after  the  toil  and  the  trouble  they  've  had, 
When  they  think  themselves  safe,  and  are  singing  so  glad, 

To  spoil  all  their  work  for  our  play  ? 

Suppose  that  some  monster,  a  dozen  yards  high, 

Should  stalk  up  at  night  to  your  bed  ? 
And  out  of  the  window  along  with  you  fly, 
And  stop  not  to  bid  your  dear  parents  good-by 

Nor  care  for  a  word  that  you  said ; 

And  take  you  away,  not  a  creature  knows  where, 

And  fasten  you  down  with  a  chain  ; 
And  feed  you  with  victuals  you  never  could  bear, 
And  hardly  allow  you  to  breathe  the  fresh  air, 

Or  ever  to  come  back  again  ? 

Oh !   how  would  you  cry  for  your  dearest  mamma, 

And  long  to  her  bosom  to  run  ; 
And  beat  your  poor  head  at  your  hard  prison  bar, 
And  hate  the  vile  monster  that  took  you  so  far, 

For  nothing  at  all  but  his  fun. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  135 

Then  say,  little  boy,  shall  we  climb  the  tall  tree  r 

Ah  !  no,  but  this  lesson  we  '11  learn, 
That  't  would  just  as  cruel  and  terrible  be, 
As  if  a  great  monster  should  take  away  thee, 

Not  ever  again  to  return. 

Then  sleep,  little  innocents,  sleep  in  your  nest, 

We  mean  not  to  take  you  away ; 
And  when  the  next  summer  shall  wear  her  green  vest, 
And  the  woods  in  a  robe  of  rich  foliage  be  drest, 

Your  songs  shall  our  kindness  repay. 

When  the  spring  shall  return,  to  the  woodlands  we'll  hie, 
And  sit  by  yon  very  tall  tree ;  mm 

And  rejoice,  as  we  hear  your  sweet  carols  on  high, 
With  silken  wings  soaring  amid  the  blue  sky, 

That  we  left  you  to  sing  and  be  free.  ibid 


THE  HAND-POST. 

The  night  was  dark,  the  sun  was  hid 
Beneath  the  mountain  gray : 

And  not  a  single  star  appeared, 
To  shoot  a  silver  ray. 

Across  the  heath  the  owlet  flew, 
And  screamed  along  the  blast, 

And  onward  with  a  quickened  step, 
Benighted  Henry  passed. 


136  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

At  intervals,  amid  the  gloom 

A  flash  of  lightning  played, 
And  showed  the  ruts  with  water  filled, 

And  the  black  hedge's  shade. 

Again,  in  thickest  darkness  plunged, 

He  groped  his  way  to  find ; 
And  now  he  thought  he  spied  beyond  '• 

A  form  of  horrid  kind. 

In  deadly  white  it  upward  rose, 

Of  cloak  or  mantle  bare, 
And  held  its  naked  arms  across, 

To  catch  him  by  the  hair. 

Poor  Henry  felt  his  blood  run  cold 

At  what  before  him  stood  ; 
But  well,  thought  he,  no  harm,  1  'm  sure, 

Can  happen  to  the  good. 

So  calling  all  his  courage  up, 

He  to  the  goblin  went ; 
And  eager  through  the  dismal  gloom 

His  piercing  eyes  he  bent. 

And  when  he  came  w^ell  nigh  the  ghost 
That  gave  him  such  affright, 

He  clapped  his  hands  upon  his  side, 
And  loudly  laughed  outright. 

For  't  was  a  friendly  hand-post  stood, 
His  wand'ring  steps  to  guide  ; 

And  thus  he  found  that  to  the  good 
No  evil  should  betide. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  137 

And  well,  thought  he,  one  thing  I  've  learned, 

Nor  soon  shall  I  forget, 
Whatever  frightens  me  again, 

To  march  straight  up  to  it. 

And  when  I  hear  an  idle  tale 

Of  goblins  and  a  ghost, 
1  '11  tell  of  this  my  lonely  ride, 

And  the  tall  white  Hand  Post.  ibid. 


SPRING. 


AH !  see  how  the  ices  are  melting  away, 
The  rivers  have  burst  from  their  chain ; 

The  woods  and  the  hedges  with  verdure  look  gay, 
And  daises  enamel  the  plain. 

The  sun  rises  high,  and  shines  warm  o'er  the  dale, 
The  orchards  with  blossoms  are  white ; 

The  voice  of  the  woodlark  is  heard  in  the  vale, 
And  the  cuckoo  returns  from  her  flight. 

Young  lambs  sport  and  frisk  on  the  side  of  the  hill, 
The  honey-bee  wakes  from  his  sleep, 

The  turtle-dove  opens  her  soft-cooing  bill, 
And  snow-drops  and  primroses  peep. 

All  nature  looks  active,  delightful,  and  gay, 

The  creatures  begin  their  employ ; 
Ah  !  let  me  not  be  less  industrious  than  they, 

An  idle  or  indolent  boy. 

12* 


138  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

Now  while  in  the  spring  of  my  vigor  and  bloom, 
In  the  paths  of  fair  learning  I  '11  run  ; 

Nor  let  the  best  part  of  my  being  consume, 
With  nothing  of  consequence  done. 

Thus  while  to  my  lessons  with  care  I  attend, 

And  store  up  the  knowledge  I  gain, 
When  the  winter  of  age  shall  upon  me  descend, 

'T  will  cheer  the  dark  season  of  pain.  ibid. 


SUMMER. 


The  heats  of  Summer  come  hastily  on, 

The  fruits  are  transparent  and  clear ; 
The  buds  and  the  blossoms  of  April  are  gone, 

And  the  deep-colored  cherries  appear. 

The  blue  sky  above  us  is  bright  and  serene, 

No  cloud  on  its  bosom  remains ; 
The  woods  and  the  fields,  and  the  hedges  are  green, 

And  the  hay-cock  smells  sweet  from  the  plains.    . 

Down  far  in  the  valley  where  bubbles  the  spring, 
Which  soft  through  the  meadow-land  glides, 

The  lads  from  the  mountain  the  heavy  sheep  bring ; 
And  shear  the  warm  coat  from  their  sides. 

Ah !  let  me  lie  down  in  some  shady  retreat, 

Beside  the  meandering  stream, 
For  the  sun  darts  abroad  an  unbearable  heat, 

And  burns  with  his  over-head  beam. 


FOR  INFANT   MINDS.  139 

There  all  the  day  idle  my  limbs  I  '11  extend, 

Fanned  soft  to  delicious  repose  ; 
While  round  me  a  thousand  sweet  odors  ascend, 

From  ev'ry  gay  wood-flower  that  blows. 

But  hark  from  the  woodlands  what  sounds  do  I  hear, 

The  voices  of  pleasure  so  gay ; 
The  merry  young  haymakers  cheerfully  bear 

The  heat  of  the  hot  summer's  day. 

While  some  with  bright  scythe,  singing  shrill  to  the  tone, 

The  tall  grass  and  butter-cups  mow, 
Some  spread  it  with  rakes,  and  by  others  't  is  thrown 

Into  sweet-smelling  cocks  in  a  row. 

Then  since  joy  and  glee  with  activity  join, 

This  moment  to  labor  I  '11  rise  ; 
While  the  idle  love  best  in  the  shade  to  recline, 

And  waste  precious  time  as  it  flies. 

To  waste  precious  time  we  can  never  recall, 

Is  waste  of  the  wickedest  kind  ; 
An  instant  of  life  has  more  value  than  all 

The  gold  that  in  India  they  find. 

Not  diamonds,  that  brilliantly  beam  in  the  mine, 
For  one  moment's  time  should  be  given  ; 

For  gems  can  but  make  us  look  gaudy  and  fine, 

But  time  can  prepare  us  for  heaven.  ibid. 


140  ORIGINAL  POEMS 


AUTUMN. 

The  sun  is  far  risen  above  the  old  trees, 

His  beams  on  the  silver  dew  play  : 
The  gossamer  tenderly  waves  in  the  breeze, 

And  the  mists  are  fast  rolling  away. 

Let  us  leave  the  warm  bed  and  the  pillow  of  down, 

The  morning  fair  bids  us  arise, 
Little  boy,  for  the  shadows  of  midnight  are  flown, 

And  sun  beams  peep  into  our  eyes. 

We  'It  pass  by  the  garden  that  leads  to  the  gate, 

But  where  is  its  gaiety  now  ? 
The  Michaelmas  daisy  blows  lonely  and  late, 

And  the  yellow  leaf  whirls  from  the  bough. 

Last  night  the  glad  reapers  their  harvest  home  sung, 

And  stored  the  full  garners  with  grain ; 
Did  you  hear  how  the  woods  with  their  merry  shouts 
rung, 

As  they  bore  the  last  sheaf  from  the  plain? 

But  hark  !  from  the  woodlands  the  sound  of  a  gun, 

The  wounded  bird  flutters  and  dies : 
Ah  !  surely  'tis  wicked,  for  nothing  but  fun 

To  shoot  the  poor  thing  as  it  flies. 

The  timid  hare  too,  in  affright  and  dismay, 
Runs  swift  through  the  brushwood  and  grass ; 

How  she  turns,  how  she  winds,  and  she  tries  every  way, 
But  the  cruel  dogs  won't  let  her  pa?£. 


FOR   INFANT    MINDS.  141 

Ah  !  poor  little  partridge,  and  pheasant  and  hare, 

I  wish  they  would  leave  you  to  live ; 
For  my  part,  I  wronder  how7  people  can  bear 

To  see  all  the  torment  they  give. 

When  a  reynard  at  midnight  steals  down  to  the  farm, 

And  kills  the  poor  chickens  and  cocks ; 
Then  rise,  farmer  Goodman,  there  can  be  no  harm 

In  chasing  a  thief  of  a  fox. 

But  the  innocent  hare,  and  the  pheasant  so  sleek, 

T  were  cruel  and  wicked  to  slay : 
The  partridge  with  blood  never  reddened  her  beak, 

Nor  hares  stole  the  poultry  away. 

If  folks  would  but  think  of  the  torture  they  give, 

To  creatures  who  cannot  complain, 
I  think  they  would  let  the  poor  animals  live, 

Nor  ever  go  shooting  again.  ibtd. 


WINTER. 


Behold  the  gray  branches  that  stretch  from  the  trees, 

Nor  blossom  nor  verdure  they  wear ! 
They  rattle  and  shake  to  the  northerly  breeze, 

And  wave  their  long  arms  in  the  air. 

The  sun  hides  his  face  in  a  mantle  of  cloud, 

Dark  vapors  roll  over  the  sky  ; 
The  wind  through  the  wood  halloos  hoarsely  and  loud, 

And  sea-birds  across  the  land  fly 


142  ORIGLNAL    POEMS 

Come  hi,  little  Charles,  for  the  snow  patters  down, 

No  paths  in  the  garden  remain : 
The  streets  and  the  houses  are  white  in  the  town, 

And  white  are  the  fields  and  the  plain. 

Come  in,  little  Charles,  from  the  tempest  of  snow, 
'T  is  dark,  and  the  shutters  we  '11  close  ; 

We  '11  put  a  fresh  fagot  to  make  the  fire  glow, 
Secure  from  the  storm  as  it  blows. 

But  how  many  wretches,  without  house  or  home, 

Are  wandering  naked  and  pale ; 
Obliged  on  the  snow-covered  common  to  roam, 

And  pierced  by  the  pitiless  gale  ; 

No  house  for  their  shelter,  no  victuals  to  eat, 

No  bed  for  their  limbs  to  repose  ; 
Or  a  crust  dry  and  mouldy,  the  best  of  their  meat, 

And  their  pillow  a  pillow  of  snows. 

Be  thankful,  my  child,  that 't  is  not  your  lot 

To  wander  an  orphan  and  poor ; 
A  father,  and  mother,  and  home  you  have  got, 

And  yet  you  deserve  them  no  more. 

Be  thankful,  my  child,  and  forget  not  to  pay 

Your  thanks  to  that  Father  above, 
Who  gives  you  so  many  more  blessings  than  they, 

And  crowns  your  whole  life  with  his  love.  ibid. 


FOR  INFANT   MINDS.  143 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY,  ON  GIVING  IT 
LIBERTY. 

Poor  harmless  insect,  thither  fly, 

And  life's  short  hour  enjoy : 
'T  is  all  thou  hast,  and  why  should  I 

That  little  all  destroy  ? 

Why  should  my  tyrant  will  suspend 

A  life  by  wrisdom  given, 
Or  sooner  bid  thy  being  end, 

Than  was  designed  by  Heaven  ? 

Lost  to  the  joy  which  reason  knows, 

Ephemeral  and  frail, 
'T  is  thine  to  wander  where  the  rose 

Perfumes  the  cooling  gale. 

To  bask  upon  the  sunny  bed, 

The  damask  flower  to  kiss, 
To  range  along  the  bending  shade. 

Is  all  thy  little  bliss. 

Then  flutter  stilL  thy  silken  wings, 

In  rich  embroidery  dressed,  > 

And  sport  upon  the  gale  that  flings 
Sweet  odors  from  his  vest. 


144  ORIGINAL  POEMS 


THE  TEMPEST 

See  the  dark  vapors  cloud  the  sky, 
The  thunder  rumbles  round  and  round : 
The  lightning's  flash  begins  to  fly, 
Big  drops  of  rain  bedew  the  ground  : 
The  frightened  birds,  with  ruffled  wing, 
Fly  through  the  air,  and  cease  to  sing. 

Now  nearer  rolls  the  mighty  peal, 
Incessant  thunder  roars  aloud ; 
Tossed  by  the  winds  the  tall  oaks  reel, 
The  forked  lightning  breaks  the  cloud : 
Deep  torrents  drench  the  swimming  plain, 
And  sheets  of  fire  descend  with  rain. 

'T  is  God  who  on  the  tempest  rides, 
And  with  a  word  directs  the  storm ; 
'T  is  at  his  nod  the  wind  subsides, 
Or  heaps  of  heavy  vapors  form ; 
In  fire  and  cloud  he  walks  the  sky, 
And  lets  his  stores  of  tempest  fly. 

Then  why  with  childish  terror  fear,  • 
What  waits  his  will  to  do  me  harm  ? 
The  bolt  shall  never  venture  near, 
Or  give  me  cause  for  dire  alarm, 
If  he  directs  the  fiery  ball, 
And  bid  it  not  on  me  to  fall. 

V 

Yet  though  beneath  his  power  divine, 
I  wait,  depending  on  his  care, 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  145 

Each  right  endeavor  shall  be  mine, 
Of  every  danger  I  '11  beware, 
Far  from  the  metal  bell- wire  stand, 
Nor  on  the  door-lock  put  my  hand. 

When  caught  amidst  the  open  field, 
I  '11  not  seek  shelter  from  a  tree  ; 
Though  from  the  falling  rain  a  shield, 
More  dreadful  might  the  lightning  be  : 
Its  tallest  boughs  might  draw  the  fire, 
And  I,  with  sudden  stroke,  expire. 

Thus,  while  with  lawful  care  I  try 

To  shun  each  dangerous  thing  and  place, 

I  '11  lift  to  God  my  prayerful  eye, 

And  beg  protection  from  his  grace : 

If  spared,  to  him  the  praise  I  '11  give, 

Or  if  I  die,  in  heaven  shall  live.  ibid. 


MORNING. 

Awake,  little  girl,  it  is  time,  so  arise, 

Come,  shake  drowsy  sleep  from  your  eye ; 

The  lark  is  loud  warbling*  his  notes  in  the  skies, 
Aaid  the  sun  is  far  mounted  on  high* 

O  come,  for  the  fields  with  gay  flowers  o'erflow, 
The  glistening  dew-drop  is  trembling  still, 

The  lowing  herds  graze  in  the  pastures  below, 
And  the  sheep-bell  is  heard  from  the  hill. 

VOL.    V.  13 


146  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

O  come,  for  the  bee  has  flown  out  of  his  bed, 

To  begin  his  day's  labor  anew ; 
The  spider  is  weaving  her  delicate  thread, 

Which  brilliantly  glitters  with  dew. 

O  come,  for  the  ant  has  crept  out  of  her  cell 

Her  daily  employment  to  seek : 
She  knows  the  true  value  of  moments  too  well 

To  waste  them  in  indolent  sleep. 

Awake,  little  sleeper,  and  do  not  despise 

Of  insects  instruction  to  ask; 
From  your  pillow  with  good  resolutions  arise, 

And  cheerfully  go  to  your  task. 


EVENING. 


Little  girl,  it  is  time  to  retire  to  rest ; 

The  sheep  are  put  into  the  fold ; 
The  linnet  forsakes  us  and  flies  to  her  nest, 

To  shelter  her  young  from  the  cold. 

The  owd  has  flown  out  from  his  lonely  retreat, 
And  screams  through  the  tall  shady  trees ; 

The  nightingale  takes  on  the  hawthorn  her  seat, 
And  sings  to  the  evening  breeze. 

The  sun,  too,  now  seems  to  have  finished  his  race, 

And  sinks  once  again  to  his  rest ; 
But  though  we  no  longer  can  see  his  bright  face, 

He  leaves  a  gold  streak  in  the  west. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  147 

Little  girl,  have  you  finished  your  daily  employ, 

With  industry,  patience,  and  care  ? 
If  so,  lay  your  head  on  your  pillow  with  joy, 

No  thorn  to  disturb  shall  be  there. 

The  moon  through  your  curtains  shall  cheerfully  peep, 

Her  silver  beam  dance  on  your  eyes, 
And  mild  evening  breezes  shall  fan  you  to  sleep, 

Till  bright  morning  bids  you  arise.  j.  t. 


THE  IDLE  BOY. 

Thomas  was  an  idle  lad, 
And  lounged  about  all  day ; 

And  though  he  many  a  lesson  had, 
He  minded  nought  but  play. 

He  only  cared  for  top  or  ball, 
Or  marbles,  hoop,  and  kite  ; 

But  as  for  learning,  that  was  all 
Neglected  by  him  quite. 

In  vain  his  mother's  kind  advice, 

In  vain  his  master's  care, 
He  followed  every  idle  vice, 

And  learned  to  curse  and  swear ! 

And  think  you  when  he  grew  a  man, 
He  prospered  in  his  ways  ? 

No,  wicked  courses  never  can 
Bring  good  and  happy  days. 


148  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

Without  a  shilling  in  his  purse, 

Or  cot  to  call  his  own, 
Poor  Thomas  grew  from  bad  to  worse, 

And  hardened  as  a  stone. 

And  oh,  it  grieves  me  much  to  write 

His  melancholy  end ; 
Then  let  us  leave  the  dreadful  sight, 

And  thoughts  of  pity  lend. 

But  may  we  this  important  truth 

Observe  and  ever  hold, 
"  All  those  who  're  idle  in  their  youth, 

Will  suffer  when  they  're  old."  j.  t. 


THE  INDUSTRIOUS  BOY. 

I>-  a  cottage  upon  the  heath  wild, 
That  always  was  cleanly  and  nice, 

Lived  William,  a  good  little  child, 
Who  minded  his  parents'  advice. 

'T  is  true  he  loved  marbles  and  kite, 
And  spin-top,  and  nine-pins,  and  ball, 

But  this  1  declare  with  delight, 
His  book  he  loved  better  than  all. 

In  active  and  useful  employ 
His  youth  gaily  glided  away ; 

While  rational  pleasures  and  joy 
Attended  his  steps  every  day. 


FOR  INFANT   MINDS.  149 

And  now  let  us  see  him  grow  up, 
Still  cheerfulness  dwelt  in  his  mind, 

Contentment  yet  sweetened  his  cup, 
For  still  he  was  active  and  kind. 

His  wife  for  gay  riches  ne'er  sighed  ; 

No  princess  so  happy  as  she  ; 
While  William  would  sit  by  her  side, 

With  a  sweet  smiliug  babe  on  his  knee. 

His  garden  well  loaded  with  store, 

His  cot  by  the  side  of  the  green, 
Where  woodbines  crept  over  the  door, 

And  jessamines  peeped  in  between. 

These  filled  him  with  honest  delight, 
And  rewarded  him  well  for  his  toil ; 

He  went  to  bod  cheerful  at  night, 
And  woke  in  the  morn  with  a  smile. 

Nor  knew  he  the  feelings  of  dread, 
When  infirmity  brought  him  to  die  ; 

While  his  grandchildren  knelt  round  his  bed, 
And  his  dutiful  sons  closed  his  eye. 

then  may  I  diligent  be, 

And  as  active  as  ever  I  can, 
That  I  may  be  happy  and  free, 

Like  him  when  I  grow  up  a  man !  j.  t. 

13* 


150  ORIGINAL   POEMS 


THE  LITTLE  FISHERMAN. 

There  was  a  little  fellow  once, 

And  Harry  was  his  name, 
And  many  a  naughty  trick  had  he  ; 

I  tell  it  to  his  shame. 

He  minded  not  his  friends'  advice, 
But  followed  his  own  wishes ; 

And  one  most  cruel  trick  of  his 
Was  that  of  catching  fishes. 

His  father  had  a  little  pond, 

Where  often  Harry  went, 
And  in  this  most  inhuman  sport, 

He  many  an  evening  spent. 

One  day  he  took  his  hook  and  bait. 

And  hurried  to  the  pond, 
And  there  began  the  cruel  game, 

Of  which  he  was  so  fond. 

And  many  a  little  fish  he  caught, 
And  pleased  was  he  to  look, 

And  see  them  writhe  in  agony, 
And  struggle  on*  the  hook. 

At  last  when  having  caught  enough, 

And  tired  too  himself, 
He  hastened  home,  intending  there 

To  put  them  on  a  shelf. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  151 

But  as  he  jumped  to  reach  a  dish 

To  put  his  fishes  in, 
A  sharp  meat  hook,  that  hung  close  by, 

Did  catch  him  by  the  chin. 

Poor  Harry  kicked  and  called  aloud, 
And  screamed,  and  cried,  and  roared, 

While  from  the  wound  the  crimson  blood 
In  dreadful  torrents  poured. 

The  maids  came  running,  frightened  much 

To  see  him  hanging  there, 
And  soon  they  took  him  from  the  hook, 

And  sat  him  in  a  chair. 

The  surgeon  came,  and  stopped  the  blood, 

And  up  he  bound  his  head ; 
And  then  they  carried  him  up  stairs, 

And  laid  him  on  his  bed. 

Conviction  darted  on  his  mind, 

As  groaning  there  he  lay  ; 
lie  with  remorse  and  horror  thought 

Upon  his  cruel  pipy. 

"And  oh,"   said  he,   "poor  little  fish, 

What  tortures  they  have  borne; 
While  T,  well  pleased,  have  stood  to  see 

Their  tender  bodies  torn ! 

"  O,  what  a  wicked  boy  I  've  been, 

Such  torments  to  bestow  ; 
Well  I  deserve  the  pain  I  feel, 

Since  T  could  serve  them  so. 


152  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

"  But  now  I  know  how  great  the  smart, 

How  terrible  the  pain  ! 
As  long  as  I  can  feel  myself, 

I  '11  never  fish  again." 


OLD  AGE. 

Who  is  it  comes  tottering  along! 

His  footsteps  are  feeble  and  slow, 
His  beard  is  grown  curling  and  long, 

And  his  head  is  turned  white  as  the  snow. 

His  dim  eye  is  sunk  in  his  head, 

And  wrinkles  deep  furrow  his  brow ; 

Animation  and  vigor  are  fled, 
And  yield  to  infirmity  now. 

Little  stranger,  his  name  is  Old  Age, 
His  journey  will  shortly  be  o'er, 

He  soon  will  leave  life's  busy  stage, 
To  be  torn  by  affliction  no  more. 

Little  stranger,  though  healthy  and  strong, 

You  now  all  adversity  brave, 
Like  him  you  must  totter  ere  long, 

Like  him  you  must  sink  to  the  grave. 

Those  limbs  that  so  actively  play, 
That  face,  beaming  pleasure  and  mirth, 

Like  his  must  drop  into  decay, 
And  moulder  awav  in  the  earth. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  153 

Then,  ere  that  dark  season  of  night, 

When  youth  and  its  energies  cease, 
O !  follow,  with  zeal  and  delight, 

Those  paths  that  are  pleasure  and  peace. 

So  triumph  and  hope  shall  be  nigh, 
When  failing  and  fainting  you  breathe ; 

T  will  light  a  bright  spark  in  your  eye, 
As  it  closes  forever  in  death. 


THE  APPLE-TREE. 

Old  John  had  an  apple-tree,  healthy  and  green, 
Which  bore  the  best  codlins  that  ever  were  seen, 

So  juicy,  and  mellow  and  red ; 
And  when  they  were  ripe,  as  old  Johnny  was  poor, 
He  sold  them  to  children  that  passed  by  his  door, 

To  buy  him  a  morsel  of  bread. 

Little  Dick,  his  next  neighbor,  one  often  might  see 
With  longing  eye  viewing  this  nice  apple-tree, 

And  wishing  a  codlin  would  fall ; 
One  day,  as  he  stood  in  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
He  began  thinking  whether  he  might  not  take  one, 

And  then  he  looked  over  the  wall. 

And  as  he  again  cast  his  eye  on  the  tree, 

He  said  to  himself,  "  O,  how  nice  they  would  be, 

So  cool  and  refreshing  to-day ! 
The  tree  is  so  full,  and  I  'd  only  take  one, 
And  old  John  won't  see,  for  he  is  not  at  home, 

And  nobody  is  in  the  way." 


154 


ORIGINAL    POEMS 


But  stop,  little  boy,  take  your  hand  from  the  bough, 
Remember,  though  old  John  can  't  see  you  just  now, 

And  no  one  to  chide  you  is  nigh, 
There  is  One,  who  by  night,  just  as  well  as  by  day, 
Can  see  all  you  do,  and  can  hear  all  you  say, 

From  his  glorious  throne  in  the  sky. 

Oh  then,  little  boy,  come  away  from  the  tree, 
Content,  hot  or  weary  or  thirsty  to  be, 

Or  any  thing  rather  than  steal ! 
For  the  great  God,  who  even  through  darkness  can  look, 
Writes  down  every  crime  we  commit,  in  his  book, 

However  we  think  to  conceal.  j.  t. 


THE  DISAPPOINTMENT. 


In  tears  to  her  mother  poor  Harriot  came, 

Let  us  listen  to  hear  what  she  says: 
'  O  see,  dear  mamma,  it  is  pouring  with  rain, 

We  cannot  go  out  in  the  chaise. 

'All  the  week  have  I  longed  for  the  journey,  you  know, 

And  fancied  the  minutes  were  hours, 
And  now  that  I  'm  dressed  and  all  ready  to  go, 

O  see,  dear  mamma,  how  it  pours.' 

I  'm  sorry,  my  dear,  her  good  mother  replied, 

The  rain  won't  permit  us  to  go, 
And  I  'm  sorry  to  see,  for  the  sake  of  a  ride, 

That  you  cry  and  distress  yourself  so. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  155 

These  slight  disappointments  and  crosses  you  hate, 

Are  sent  you  your  mind  to  prepare  ; 
That  you  may  with  courage  and  fortitude  wait 

More  serious  distresses  to  bear. 

Oh  think  not,  my  child,  as  you  grow  up  in  life, 

That  pleasures  unceasing  will  flow; 
Disappointment,  and  trouble,  and  sorrow,  and  strife, 

Will  follow  wherever  you  go. 

Though  now  the  bright  prospect  seems  opening  fair, 

And  hope  paints  a  scene  of  delight, 
Too  soon  you  will  see  it  all  vanish  in  air, 

And  leave  you  to  darkness  and  night. 

Ah  then,  my  dear  girl,  when  these  sorrows  appear, 

And  trouble  flows  in  like  a  tide, 
You  '11  wonder  that  you  ever  wasted  a  tear 

On  merely  the  loss  of  a  ride. 

But  though  this  world's  pleasures  are  fading  and  vain, 

Religion  is  lasting  and  true : 
Real  pleasure  and  joy  in  her  paths  you  may  gain, 

Nor  will  disappointment  ensue.  j.  t. 


THE  SHEPHERD  BOY. 

Upon  a  mountain's  grassy  side 
Where  many  a  tall  fir  grew, 

Young  Colin  wandered  with  his  flocks, 
And  many  a  hardship  knew. 


156  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

No  downy  pillow  for  his  head, 

No  sheltered  home  had  he, 
The  green  grass  was  his  only  bed 

Beneath  some  shady  tree. 

Dry  bread,  and  water  from  the  spring, 
Composed  his  temp'rate  fare : 

Yet  Colin  ate  with  thankful  heart, 
Nor  felt  a  murmur  there. 

A  cheerful  smile  upon  his  face 

Was  ever  seen  to  play, 
He  envied  not  the  rich  nor  great, 

More  happy  far  than  they. 

While  'neath  some  spreading  shade  he  sat, 

Beside  his  fleecy  flocks, 
His  soft  pipe  warbled  through  the  wood, 

And  echoed  from  the  rocks. 

An  ancient  castle  on  the  plain 

In  silent  grandeur  stood, 
And  there  the  young  lord  Henry  dwelt ; 

The  proud,  but  not  the  good. 

And  oft  he  wandered  o'er  the  plain, 

Or  on  the  mountain's  side, 
Or  with  surprise  and  envy  too 

The  humble  Colin  eyed. 

'•And  why,"  said  he,   "am  I  denied 

That  cheerfulness  and  joy, 
That  ever  smiles  upon  the  face 

Of  this  poor  shepherd  boy? 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  157 

"  Nor  titles,  honors,  nor  estates, 

No  wealth,  nor  power  has  he ; 
And  yet,  though  destitute  and  poor, 

He  seems  more  blessed  than  me." 

For  this  lord  Henry  did  not  know, 

That  pleasure  ne'er  is  found 
Where  angry  passions  reign  and  rule, 

And  evil  deeds  abound. 

Colin,  though  poor,  was  humble  too, 

Benevolent  and  kind : 
While  passion,  anger,  rage,  and  pride, 

Disturbed  lord  Henry's  mind. 

Thus  Colin,  though  a  shepherd  boy, 

Was  ever  glad  and  gay ; 
And  Henry,  though  a  noble  lord, 

To  discontent  a  prey.  j.  t. 


THE  ROBIN. 

Away,  pretty  Robin,  fly  home  to  your  nest, 
To  make  you  my  captive  I  still  should  like  best, 

And  feed  you  with  worms  and  with  bread: 
Your  eyes  are  so  sparkling,  your  feathers  so  soft, 
Your  little  wings  flutter  so  pretty  aloft, 

And  your  breast  is  all  colored  with  red. 
vol.  v.  14 


158  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

But  then  't  would  be  cruel  to  keep  you,  I  know, 
So  stretch  out  your  wings,  little  Robin,  and  go, 

Fly  home  to  your  young  ones  again ; 
Go,  listen  again  to  the  notes  of  your  mate, 
And  enjoy  the  green  shade  in  your  lonely  retreat, 

Secure  from  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

But  when  the  leaves  fall,  and  the  winter  winds  blow, 
And  the  green  fields  are  covered  all  over  with  snow, 

And  the  clouds  in  white  feathers  descend ; 
When  the  springs  are  all  ice,  and  the  rivulets  freeze, 
And  the  long,  shining  icicles  drop  from  the  trees, 

Then,  Robin,  remember  your  friend. 

When  with  cold  and  with  hunger  quite  perish'dand  weak? 
Come  tap  at  my  window  again  with  your  beak, 

And  gladly  I  '11  let  you  come  in ; 
You  shall  fly  to  my  bosom,  or  perch  on  my  thumbs, 
Or  hop  round  the  table  and  pick  up  the  crums, 

And  never  be  hungry  again.  j.  t. 


THE  SHOULDER  OF  MUTTON. 

Young  Jem  at  noon  returned  from  school, 

As  hungry  as  could  be, 
He  cried  to  Sue  the  servant  maid, 

1  My  dinner  give  to  me.' 

Said  Sue,  c  It  is  not  yet  come  home, 

Besides  it  is  not  late ;' 
'  No  matter  that,'  cried  little  Jem, 

1  I  do  not  like  to  wait.' 


FOR  INFANT   MINDS.  159 

Quick  to  the  baker's  Jemmy  went, 

And  asked  '  Is  dinner  done  ? ' 
1  It  is,'  replied  the  baker's  man, 

1  Then  home  I  '11  with  it  run.' 

'  Nay,  sir,'  replied  he,  prudently, 

i  I  tell  you  't  is  too  hot. 
And  much  too  heavy  't  is  for  you ' 

' 1  tell  you  it  is  not. 

5  Papa,  mamma,  are  both  gone  out, 

And  I  for  dinner  long  ; 
So  give  it  me  : It  is  all  mine, 

And,  baker,  hold  your  tongue. 

'  A  shoulder  't  is  of  mutton  nice ! 

And  batter-pudding  too ; 
I  'm  glad  of  that,  it  is  so  good ; 

How  clever  is  our  Sue ! ' 

Now  near  his  door  young  Jem  was  come, 

He  round  the  corner  turned  ; 
But  O,  sad  fate,  unlucky  chance ! 

The  dish  his  fingers  burned. 

Low  in  the  kennel  down  fell  dish, 

And  down  fell  all  the  meat ; 
Swift  went  the  pudding  in  the  stream, 

And  sailed  down  the  street. 

The  people  laughed,  and  rude  boys  grinned, 

At  mutton's  hapless  fall ; 
But  though  ashamed,  young  Jemmy  cried, 

1  Better  lose  part  than  all.' 


160  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

The  shoulder  by  the  knuckle  seized, 

His  both  hands  grasped  it  fast, 
And,  deaf  to  all  their  gibes  and  cries, 

He  gained  his  home  at  last. 

'  Impatience  is  a  fault,'  says  Jem, 

t  The  baker  said  too  true ; 
In  future,  patient  I  will  be, 

And  mind  what  says  our  Sue.'         Adelaide. 


FALSE   ALARMS. 

Little  Mary  one  day  most  loudly  did  call ; 

1  Mamma !  O  mamma,  pray  come  here ! 
A  fall  I  have  had  ;  oh,  a  very  sad  fall.' 

Mamma  ran  in  haste  and  in  fear ; 
Then  Mary  jumped  up,  and  she  laughed  in  great  glee, 

And  cried,  '  Why,  how  fast  you  can  run ! 
No  harm  has  befallen,  I  assure  you,  to  me, 

My  screaming  was  only  in  fun.' 

Her  mother  was  busy  at  work  the  next  day, 

She  heard  from  without  a  loud  cry 
1  The  big  dog  has  got  me  !  O  help  me !  O  pray ! 

He  tears  me — he  bites  me — I  die  ! ' 
Mamma,  all  in  terror,  quick  to  the  court  flew, 

And  there  little  Mary  she  found  : 
Who  laughing,  said,  'Madam,  pray  how  do  you  do?' 

And  curtseyed  quite  down  to  the  ground. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  161 

That  night,  little  Mary  when  long  gone  to  bed, 

Shrill  cries,  and  loud  shriekings  were  heard ; 
(I'mon  fire,  O  mamma !  come  up  or  I'm  dead ! ' 

Mamma,  she  believed  not  a  word. 
*  Sleep,  sleep,  naughty  child,'  she  called  out  from  below, 

4  How  often  have  I  been  deceived ! 
You  're  telling  a  story,  you  very  well  know : 

Go  to  sleep,  for  you  can't  be  believed.' 

Yet  still  the  child  screamed  ;  now  the  house  filled  with 
smoke ; 

That  fire  is  above,  Jane  declares. 
Alas  !  Mary' s  words  they  soon  found  were  no  joke, 

When  every  one  hastened  up  stairs. 
All  burnt  and  all  seamed  is  her  once  pretty  face, 

And  terribly  marked  are  her  arms, 
Her  features  all  scarred,  leave  a  lasting  disgrace 

For  giving  mamma  false  alarms.  Adelaide. 


THE  CHILD'S  MONITOR. 

The  wind  blows  down  the  largest  tree, 
And  yet  the  wind  1  cannot  see. 
Playmates  far  off,  that  have  been  kind, 
My  thought  can  bring  before  my  mind, 
The  past  by  it  is  present  brought, 
And  yet  I  cannot  see  my  thought. 
The  charming  rose  perfumes  the  air, 
Yet  I  can  see  no  perfumes  there. 
Blithe  Robin's  notes — how  sweet,  how  clear ! 
From  his  small  bill  they  reach  my  ear ; 
14* 


162  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

And  whilst  upon  the  air  they  float, 

I  hear,  yet  cannot  see  a  note. 

When  I  would  do  what  is  forbid, 

By  something  in  my  heart  I  'm  chid ; 

When  good  I  think,  then  quick  and  pat, 

That  something  says,  *  My  child,  do  that.5 

When  I  too  near  the  stream  would  go, 

So  pleased  to  see  the  waters  flow, 

That  something  says,  without  a  sound, 

8  Take  care,  dear  child,  you  may  be  drowned.' 

And  for  the  poor  whene'er  I  grieve, 

That  something  says,  '  A  penny  give.' 

Thus  Spirits  good  and  ill  there  be, 

Although  invisible  to  me  ; 

Whate'er  I  do,  they  see  me  still, 

But  O,  good  Spirits,  guide  my  will !         Adelaide. 


THE  BUTTERFLY. 

The  Butterfly,  an  idle  thing, 

Nor  honey  makes,  nor  yet  can  sing, 

Like  to  the  bee  and  bird ; 
Nor  does  it,  like  the  prudent  ant, 
Lay  up  the  grain  for  time  of  want, 

A  wise  and  cautious  hoard. 

My  youth  is  but  a  summer's  day, 
Then,  like  the  bee  and  ant,  I  '11  lay 

A  store  of  learning  by ; 
And  though  from  flower  to  flower  1  rove, 
My  stock  of  wisdom  I  '11  improve, 

Nor  be  a  Butterfly.  Adelaide. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  163 


THE  BOYS  AND  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

As  Billy  and  Tommy  were  walking  one  day, 

They  came  by  a  fine  orchard  side ; 
They  'd  rather  eat  apples  then  spell,  read,  or  play, 

And  Tommy  to  Billy  then  cried  : 

Oh  brother,  look !  see  !  what  fine  clusters  hang  there, 

1  '11  jump  and  climb  over  the  wall ; 
I  will  have  an  apple  ;  I  will  have  a  pear, 

Or  else  it  shall  cost  me  a  fall. 

Said  Billy  to  Tommy,  to  steal  is  a  sin, 

Mamma  has  oft  told  this  to  thee  ; 
I  never  yet  stole,  nor  now  will  begin ; 

So,  red  apples,  hang  on  the  tree. 

You  are  a  good  boy,  as  you  ever  have  been, 

Said  Tommy,  let 's  walk  on,  my  lad ; 
We  '11  call  on  our  school-fellow,  little  Bob  Greene, 

And  to  see  us  I  know  he  '11  be  glad. 

They  came  to  a  house,  and  they  rang  at  the  gate, 
And  asked,  *  Pray  is  Bobby  at  home  ? ' 

But  Bobby's  good  manners  did  not  let  them  wait ; 
He  out  of  the  parlor  did  come. 

Bob  smiled  and  he  laughed,  and  he  capered  with  joy, 

His  little  companions  to  view — 
We  called  in  to  see  you,  said  each  little  boy. 

Said  Bobby :  I  'm  glad  to  see  you. 


164  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

Come  walk  in  our  garden,  so  large  and  so  fine ; 

You  shall,  for  my  father  gives  leave ; 
And  more,  he  insists  that  you  '11  stay  here  to  dine ; 

A  rare  jolly  day  we  shall  have  ! 

But  when  in  the  garden,  they  found  't  was  the  same 

They  saw  as  they  walked  in  the  road ; 
And  near  the  high  wall,  when  these  little  boys  came, 

They  started,  as  if  from  a  toad. 

That  large  ring  of  iron,  which  lies  on  the  ground, 

With  terrible  teeth  like  a  saw, 
Said  Bobby,  the  guard  of  our  garden  is  found : 

It  keeps  wicked  robbers  in  awe. 

The  warning  without,  if  they  should  set  at  naught, 

This  trap  tears  their  legs ;  O  so  sad ! 
Says  Billy  to  Tommy,  so  you  'd  have  been  caught, 

A  narrow  escape  you  have  had. 

Cried  Tommy,  I  '11  mind  what  my  good  mother  says, 

And  take  the  advice  of  a  friend  ; 
I  never  will  steal  to  the  end  of  my  days, 

I  've  been  a  bad  boy,  but  I  '11  mend.  Adelaide. 


THE  WOODEN  DOLL  AND  THE  WAX  DOLL. 

There  were  two  friends,  a  charming  little  pair ! 
Brunette  the  brown,  and  Blanchidine  the  fair : 
This  child  to  love  Brunette  did  still  incline, 
And  much  Brunette  loved  sweet  Blanchidine. 
Brunette  in  dress  was  neat  yet  wond'rous  plain, 
But  Blanchidine  of  finery  was  vain. 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  165 

Now  Blanchidine  a  new  acquaintance  made, 
A  little  miss,  most  splendidly  arrayed : 
Feathers  and  laces  beauteous  to  behold, 
And  India  frock,  with  spots  of  shining  gold. 
Said  Blanchidine,  a  miss  so  richly  dressed, 
Most  sure  by  all  deserves  to  be  caressed ; 
To  play  with  me  if  she  will  condescend, 
Henceforward  she  shall  be  my  only  friend. 
For  this  new  miss,  so  dressed  and  so  adorned, 
Her  poor  Brunette  was  slighted,  left,  and  scorned. 

Of  Blanchidine's  vast  stock  of  pretty  toys, 
A  wooden  Doll  her  every  thought  employs ; 
Its  neck  so  white,  so  smooth,  its  cheeks  so  red, 
She  'd  kiss,  she  'd  hug,  she  'd  take  it  to  her  bed. 

Mother  now  brought  her  home  a  Doll  of  wax, 
Its  hair  in  ringlets  white  and  soft  as  flax ; 
Its  eyes  could  open,  and  its  eyes  could  shut, 
And  on  it  with  much  taste  its  clothes  were  put, 
My  dear  wax  doll,  sweet  Blanchidine  would  cry : 
Her  doll  of  wood  was  thrown  neglected  by. 

One  summer's  day,  't  was  in  the  month  of  June, 
The  sun  blazed  out  in  all  the  heat  of  noon, 
My  waxen  doll,  she  cried,  my  dear !  my  charm ! 
You  feel  quite  cold,  but  you  shall  soon  be  warm. 
She  placed  it  in  the  sun— misfortune  dire  ! 
The  wax  ran  down  as  if  before  the  fire ! 
Each  beauteous  feature  quickly  disappeared, 
And  melting  left  a  blank  all  soiled  and  smeared. 

She  stared,  she  screamed  with  horror  and  dismay, 
You  odious  fright,  she  then  was  heard  to  say ; 


166  ORIGINAL   POEMS. 

For  you  my  silly  heart  I  have  estranged, 

From  my  sweet  wooden  Doll,  that  never  changed. 

Just  so  may  change  my  new  acquaintance  fine, 

For  whom  I  left  Brunette,  that  friend  of  mine. 

No  more  by  outside  show  will  I  be  lured, 

Of  such  capricious  whims  I  think  I  'm  cured : 

To  plain  old  friends  my  heart  shall  still  be  true, 

Nor  change  for  every  face  because  't  is  new. 

Her  slighted  wooden  doll  resumed  its  charms, 

And  wronged  Brunette  she  clasped  within  her  arms. 

ADELAIDE. 


THE  REDBREAST. 

The  Thrush  sings  nobly  on  the  tree, 
In  strength  of  voice  excelling  me, 

Whilst  leaves  and  fruits  are  on. 
Think  how  poor  Robin  sings  for  you, 
When  nature's  beauties  bid  adieu, 

And  leaves  and  fruits  are  gone. 
All,  then,  to  me  some  crums  of  bread  O  fling ! 
And  through  the  year  my  grateful  thanks  I  '11  sing. 

When  winter's  winds  blow  loud  and  rude, 
And  birds  retire  in  sullen  mood, 

And  snow  makes  white  the  ground ; 
I  sing,  your  drooping  hearts  to  charm, 
And,  sure  that  you  '11  not  do  me  harm, 

I  hop  your  .window  round. 
Ah,  then,  to  me  some  crums  of  bread  O  fling ! 
And  through  the  year  my  grateful  thanks  F  11  sing. 


FOR    INFANT  MINDS.  167 

Since,  friends,  in  you  I  put  my  trust, 
As  you  enjoy,  you  should  be  just, 

And  for  your  music  pay  ; 
And  when  I  find  a  traveller  dead, 
My  bill  with  leaves  the  corpse  shall  spread, 

And  sing  his  passing  lay. 
Ah,  then,  to  me  some  crums  of  bread  O  fling! 
And  through  the  year  my  grateful  thanks  I'  11  sing. 

ADELAIDE 


IDLE  DICKY  AND  THE  GOAT. 

John  Brown  is  a  man  without  houses  or  lands, 
Himself  he  supports  by  the  work  of  his  hands  ; 
He  brings  home  his  wages  each  Saturday  night, 
To  his  wife  and  his  children  a  very  good  sight. 

His  eldest  boy,  Dicky,  on  errands  when  sent, 
To  loiter  and  chatter  was  very  much  bent : 
The  neighbors  all  called  him  an  odd  little  trout, 
His  shoes  they  were  broke,  and  his  toes  they  peeped  out. 

To  see  such  old  shoes  all  their  sorrows  were  rife  ; 
John  Brown  he  much  grieved  and  so  did  his  wife, 
He  kissed  his  boy  Dicky,  and  stroked  his  white  head, 
You  shall  have  a  new  pair,  my  dear  boy,  he  then  said, 
I'  ve  here  twenty  shillings,  and  money  has  wings; 
Go  first  get  this  note  changed,  I  want  other  tilings. 

Now  here  comes  the  mischief — this  Dicky  would  stop 
At  an  ill-looking,  mean-looking,  green  grocer's  shop. 
For  here  lived  a  chattering  dunce  of  a  boy  ; 
To  prate  with  this  urchin  gave  Dicky  great  joy. 


168  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

And  now,  in  his  boasting,  he  shows  him  his  note, 
And  now,  to  the  green-stall  up  marches  a  goat. 
They  laughed,  foi  it  was  this  young  Nanny-goat's  way, 
With  those  who  passed  by  her  to  gambol  and  play. 
All  three  now  went  on  in  their  froJicksome  bouts, 
Till  Dick  dropped  the  note  on  a  bunch  of  green  sprouts. 

Now  what  was  Dick's  wonder !  to  see  the  vile  goat, 
In  munching  the  gre^n  sprouts,  eat  up  his  bank  note  ; 
He  crying  ran  back  to  John  Brown  with  the  news. 
By  stopping  to  idle  he  lost  his  new  shoes.       Adelaide. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Thy  plaintive  notes,  sweet  Philomel, 
All  other  melodies  excel ! 

Deep  in  the  grove  retired, 
Thou  seem'st  thyself  and  song  to  hide, 
Nor  dost  thou  boast  or  plume  with  pride, 

Nor  wish  to  be  admired. 

So,  if  endued  with  power  and  grace, 
And  with  that  power  my  will  keep  pace, 

To  act  a  gen'rous  part ; 
Hence — paltry,  ostentatious  show  ! 
Nor  let  my  liberal  actions  know, 

A  witness  but  my  heart.  Adelaide 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  169 


NEVER  PLAY  WITH  FIRE. 

My  prayers  I  said,  I  went  to  bed, 

And  soon  I  fell  asleep  : 
But  soon  I  woke,  my  sleep  was  broke, 

I  through  my  curtains  peep. 

I  heard  a  noise  of  men  and  boys, 

The  watchman's  rattle  too  ; 
Ajid  Fire  they  cried — and  then  cried  I, 

Oh  dear,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

A  shout  so  loud  came  from  the  crowd, 

Around,  above,  below ; 
And  in  the  street  the  neighbors  meet, 

Who  would  the  matter  know. 

Now  dowTi  the  stairs  run  threes  and  pairs 

Enough  to  break  their  bone?, 
The  firemen  swear,  the  engines  tear 

And  thunder  o'er  the  stones. 

The  roof  and  wall,  and  stair  and  all, 

And  rafters  tumble  in, 
Red  flames  and  blaze  now  all  amaze, 

And  make  a  dreadful  din  ! 

And  horrid  screams,  wheu  bricks  and  beams 

Came  tumbling  on  their  heads  ; 
And  some  are  smashed,  and  some  are  crashed ; 

Some  leap  on  feather  beds. 
vol.  v.  15 


170  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

Some  burn,  some  choke,  with  fire  and  smoke ! 

And  oh,  what  was  the  cause  ? 
My  heart 's  dismayed,  last  night  I  played 

With  Tommy,  lighting  straws !  Adelaide. 


THE   LARK. 

From  his  humble  grassy  bed, 

See  the  warbling  lark  arise ! 
By  his  grateful  wishes  led, 

Through  those  regions  of  the  skies. 

Songs  of  thanks  and  praise  he  pours, 

Harmonizing  airy  space, 
Sings,  and  mounts,  and  higher  soars, 

Towards  the  throne  of  heavenly  grace. 

Small  his  gifts  compared  to  mine, 

Poor  my  thanks  with  him  compared  ; 
I  've  a  soul  almost  divine  ; 

Angels'  blessings  with  me  shared. 

Wake,  my  soul !  to  praise  aspire, 

Reason,  every  sense  accord  ; 
Join  in  pure  seraphic  fire  ; 

Love,  and  thank,  and  praise  the  Lord !      Adelaide. 


THE  TRUANT  BOYS. 

The  month  was  April,  and  the  morning  cool, 

Wlien  Hal  and  Ned, 
To  walk  together  to  the  neighboring  school, 

Rose  early  from  their  bed : 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  171 

When  reached  the  school,  Hal  said,  <  Why  con  your  task 

Demure  and  prim  ? 
Ere  we  go  in,  let  me  one  question  ask : 

Ned,  shall  we  go  swim  ? ' 

Fearless  of  future  punishment  or  blame, 

Away  they  hied, 
Through  many  verdant  fields,  until  they  came 

Unto  the  river  side. 

The  broad  stream  narrowed  in  its  onward  course, 

And  deep  and  still 
It  silent  ran,  and  yet  with  rapid  force, 

To  turn  a  neighboring  mill. 

Under  the  mill  an  arch  gaped  wide,  and  seemed 

The  jaws  of  death  ! 
Through  this  the  smooth  deceitful  waters  teemed 

On  dreadful  wheels  beneath. 

They  swim  the  river  wide,  nor  think  nor  care  ; 

The  waters  flow ; 
And  by  the  current  strong  they  carried  are 

Into  the  mill-stream  now. 

Through  the  swift  waters,  as  young  Ned  was  rolled, 

The  gulf  when  near, 
On  a  kind  brier  by  chance  he  laid  fast  hold, 

And  stopped  his  dread  career. 

But  luckless  Hal  was  by  the  mill-wheel  torn, 

A  warning  sad ! 
And  the  untimely  death,  all  friends  now  mourn, 

Of  this  poor  truant  lad !  Adelaide. 


172  ORIGINAL  POEMS 


GEORGE  AND  THE  CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 

His  petticoats  now  George  cast  off, 

For  he  was  four  years  old  ; 
His  trousers  were  nankeen  so  fine, 

His  buttons  bright  as  gold — 
'  May  I,'  said  little  George,  '  go  out 

My  pretty  clothes  to  show  ? 
May  I,  papa  ?  may  I,  mamma  ? ' 

The  answer  was, '  No,  no. 

Go,  run  below,  George,  in  the  court, 

But  go  not  in  the  street, 
Lest  naughty  boys  should  play  some  trick, 

Or  gypsies  you  should  meet.' 
Yet,  though  forbade,  George  went  unseen, 

The  little  boys  to  see, 
And  all  admired  him  when  he  lisped — 

'  Now  who  so  fine  as  me  ? ' 

But  while  he  strutted  to  and  fro, 

So  proud,  as  I  've  heard  tell, 
A  sweep-boy  passed,  whom  to  avoid 

He  slipped  and  down  he  fell. 
The  sooty  lad  was  kind  and  good, 

To  Georgy  boy  he  ran, 
He  raised  him  up,  and  kissing  said, 

1  Hush,  hush,  my  little  man ! ' 

He  rubbed  and  wiped  his  clothes  with  care, 
And  hugging  said,  'Don't  cry  ! — 

Go  home,  as  quick  as  you  can  go ! 
Sweet  little  boy,  good- by,' 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  173 

Poor  George  looked  down,  and  lo !  his  dress 

Was  blacker  than  before  ; 
All  over  soot,  and  mud,  and  dirt, 

He  reached  his  father's  door. 

He  sobbed,  and  wept,  and  looked  ashamed, 

His  fault  he  did  not  hide  ; 
And  since  so  sorry  for  his  fault, 

Mamma  she  did  not  chide. 
That  night  when  he  was  gone  to  bed, 

He  jumped  up  in  his  sleep, 
And  cried,  and  sobbed  and  cried  again, 

1 1  thought  I  saw  the  sweep ! '  Adelaide. 


SOPHIA'S   FOOL'S-CAP. 

Sophia  was  a  little  child, 
Obliging,  good,  and  very  mild, 
Yet,  lest  of  dress  she  should  be  vain, 
Mamma  still  dressed  her  well  but  plain — 
Her  parents,  sensible  and  kind, 
Wished  only  to  adorn  her  mind  ; 
No  other  dress,  when  good,  had  she, 
But  useful,  neat  simplicity. 

Though  seldom,  yet  when  she  was  rude 
Or  ever  in  a  naughty  mood, 
Her  punishment  was  this  disgrace, 
A  large  fine  cap  adorned  with  lace, 
With  feathers  and  with  ribands  too  ; 
The  work  was  neat,  the  fashion  new ! 
Yet  as  a  fool's-cap  was  its  name, 
She  dreaded  much  to  wear  the  san 
15* 


174  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

A  lady,  fashionably  gay, 

Did  to  mamma  a  visit  pay, 

Sophia  stared,  then  whispering  said, 

*  Why,  dear  mamma,  look  at  her  head ! 

To  be  so  tall  and  wicked  too, 

The  strangest  thing  I  ever  knew ! 

What  naughty  tricks,  pray,  has  she  done, 

That  they  have  put  a  fool's-cap  on  ? '  Adelaide. 


WASHING  AND  DRESSING. 

Ah  !  why  will  my  dear  little  girl  be  so  cross, 

And  cry,  and  look  sulky,  and  pout  ? 
To  lose  her  sweet  smile  is  a  terrible  loss, 

I  can  't  even  kiss  her  without. 

You  say  you  do  n't  like  to  be  washed  and  be  dressed, 

But  would  you  be  dirty  and  foul  ? 
Come,  drive  that  long  sob  from  your  dear  little  breast, 

And  clear  your  sweet  face  from  its  scowl. 

[f  the  water  is  cold,  and  the  comb  hurts  your  head, 

And  the  soap  has  got  into  your  eye, 
Will  the  water  grow  warmer  for  all  that  you  've  said, 

And  what  good  will  it  do  you  to  cry  ? 

It  is  not  to  tease  you,  and  hurt  you,  my  sweet, 

But  only  for  kindness  and  care, 
That  I  wash  you,  and  dress  you,  and  make  you  look 
neat, 

And  comb  out  your  tanglesome  hair. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  H5 

I  do  n't  mind  the  trouble,  if  you  would  not  cry, 

But  pay  me  for  all  with  a  loss. 
That 's  right,  take  the  towel  and  wipe  your  wet  eye, 

I  thought  you  'd  be  good  after  this.  ann 


THE  PLUM  CAKE. 

4  Oh,  I  've  got  a  plum  cake,  and  a  rare  feast  I  '11  make, 

I  '11  eat,  and  I  '11  stuff,  and  I  '11  cram  : 
Morning,  noontime,  and  night,  it  shall  be  my  delight ; 

What  a  happy  young  fellow  I  am.' 

Thus  said  little  George,  and,  beginning  to  gorge, 

With  zeal  to  his  cake  he  applied  : 
While  fingers  and  thumbs,  for  the  sweetmeats  and  plums, 


But  woful  to  tell,  a  misfortune  befell, 

Which  ruined  his  capital  fun  ; 
After  eating  his  nil,  he  was  taken  so  ill, 

That  he  trembled  for  what  he  had  done. 

As  he  grew  worse  and  worse,  the  doctor  and  nurse 

To  cure  his  disorder  were  sent: 
And  rightly,  you  '11  think,  he  had  physic  to  drink, 

Which  made  him  his  folly  repent. 

And  while  on  his  bed  he  rolled  his  hot  head, 

Impatient  with  sickness  and  pain, 
He  could  not  but  take  this  reproof  from  his  cake, 

1  Do  'nt  be  such  a  glutton  again.'  ann. 


176  ORIGINAL  POEMS 


ANOTHER  PLUM  CAKE. 

*  Oh  !  I  've  got  a  plum  cake,  and  a  feast  let  us  make, 

Come,  school-fellows,  come  at  my  call ; 
I  assure  you,  't  is  nice,  and  we  '11  each  have  a  slice, 

Here  's  more  than  enough  for  us  all.' 

Thus  said  little  Jack,  as  he  gave  it  a  smack, 

And  sharpened  his  knife  for  the  job  ! 
While  round  him  a  troop  formed  a  clamorous  group, 

And  hailed  him  the  king  of  the  mob. 

With  masterly  strength  he  cut  through  it  at  length, 

And  gave  to  each  playmate  a  share  : 
Dick,  William,  and  James,  and  many  more  names, 

Partook  his  benevolent  care. 

And  when  it  was  done,  and  they  'd  finished  their  fun, 

To  marbles  or  hoop  they  went  back, 
And  each  little  boy  felt  it  always  a  joy 

To  do  a  good  turn  for  good  Jack. 

In  his  task  and  his  book,  his  best  pleasures  he  took, 

And  as  he  thus  wisely  began, 
Since  he  's  been  a  man  grown,  he  has  constantly  shown, 

That  a  good  boy  will  make  a  good  man.  anw. 


FOR  A  NAUGHTY  LITTLE  GIRL. 

My  sweet  little  girl  should  be  cheerful  and  mild, 
And  should  not  be  fretful  and  cry ! 

Oh,  why  is  this  passion  ?  remember,  my  child, 
God  sees  you,  who  lives  in  the  sky 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  177 

That  dear  little  face,  which  I  like  so  to  kiss, 

How  frightful  and  sad  it  appears ! 
Do  you  think  I  can  love  you,  so  naughty  as  this, 

Or  kiss  you  all  wetted  with  tears  ? 

Remember,  though  God  is  in  heaven,  my  love, 

He  sees  you,  within  and  without, 
And  always  looks  down  from  his  glory  above, 

To  notice  what  you  are  about. 

If  I  am  not  with  you,  or  if  it  be  dark, 

And  nobody  is  in  the  way, 
His  eye  is  as  able  your  doings  to  mark, 

In  the  night  as  it  is  in  the  day. 

Then  dry  up  your  tears,  and  look  smiling  again, 

And  never  do  things  that  are  wrong, 
For  I  'm  sure  you  must  feel  it  a  terrible  pain, 

To  be  naughty,  and  crying  so  long. 

We  '11  pray  that  God  may  your  passion  forgive, 

And  teach  you  from  evil  to  fly ; 
And  then  you  '11  be  happy  as  long  as  you  live, 

And  happy  whenever  you  die.'  ann. 


HONEST  OLD  TRAY. 

Oh  !  do  n't  hurt  the  dog,  poor  honest  old  Tray ; 
What  good  will  it  do  you  to  drive  him  away  ? 

Kind  usage  is  justly  his  right! 
Remember  how  faithful  he  is  to  his  charge, 
And  barks  at  the  rogues  when  we  set  him  at  large, 

And  guards  us  by  day  and  by  night. 


178  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

Though  you,  by  and  by,  will  grow  up  to  a  man, 
And  Tray  is  a  dog,  let  him  grow  as  he  can, 

Remember,  my  good  little  lad, 
A  dog  that  is  honest,  and  faithful,  and  mild, 
Is  not  only  better  than  is  a  bad  child, 

But  better  than  men  that  are  bad. 

If  you  are  a  boy,  and  Tray  but  a  beast, 

I  think  it  should  teach  you  one  lesson  at  least, 

You  ought  to  act  better  than  he ; 
And  if  without  reason,  or  judgment,  or  sense, 
Tray  does  as  we  bid  him,  and  gives  no  offence, 

How  diligent  Richard  should  be ! 

If  I  do  but  just  whistle,  as  often  you  've  seen, 
He  seems  to  say,  *  Master,  what  is  it  you  mean  ? 

My  courage  and  duty  are  tried.' 
And  see,  when  I  throw  my  hat  over  the  pale, 
He  fetches  it  back,  and  comes  wagging  his  tail, 

And  lies  it  down  close  by  my  side. 

Then,  honest  old  Tray,  let  him  sleep  at  his  ease, 
While  you  from  him  learn  to  endeavor  to  please 

And  obey  me  with  spirit  and  joy ; 
Or  else  we  shall  find  (what  would  grieve  me  to  say) 
That  Richard  's  no  better  than  honest  old  Tray ! 

And  a  brute  has  more  sense  than  a  boy !  ann. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  179 


TO  A  LITTLE  GIRL  THAT  HAS  TOLD  A  LIE. 

Ajvd  has  my  darling  told  a  lie ! 
Did  she  forget  that  God  was  by  ? 
That  God,  who  saw  the  thing  she  did, 
From  whom  no  action  can  be  hid  ; 
Did  she  forget  that  God  could  see, 
And  hear,  wherever  she  might  be  ? 

He  made  your  eye?,  and  can  discern, 
Which  ever  way  you  think  to  turn ; 
He  made  your  ears,  and  he  can  hear, 
When  you  may  think  nobody  'a  near; 
In  every  place,  by  night  or  day, 
He  watches  all  you  do  and  say. 

You  thought,  because  you  were  alone, 
Your  falsehood  never  could  be  known, 
But  liars  always  are  found  out, 
Whatever  ways  they  wind  about; 
And  always  be  afraid,  my  dear, 
To  tell  a  lie,  for  God  can  hear ! 

I  wish,  my  dear,  you  'd  always  try 
To  act  as  shall  not  need  a  lie  ; 
And  when  you  wish  a  thing  to  do, 
That  has  been  once  forbidden  you, 
Remember  that,  nor  ever  dare 
To  disobey — for  God  is  there  ! 

Why  should  you  fear  to  tell  me  true  ? 
Confess,  and  then  I  '11  pardon  you  : 
Tell  me  you  're  sorry,  and  wijl  try 


180  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

To  act  the  better  by  and  by, 

And  then,  whate'er  your  crime  has  been, 

It  won't  be  half  so  great  a  sin. 

But  cheerful,  innocent,  and  gay, 

As  passes  by  the  smiling  day, 

You  '11  never  have  to  turn  aside, 

From  any  one  your  faults  to  hide : 

Nor  heave  a  sigh,  nor  have  a  fear, 

That  either  God,  or  I  should  hear.  ann. 


THE  TWO  GARDENS. 

When  Harry  and  Dick  had  been  striving  to  please, 

Their  father  (to  whom  it  was  known) 
Made  two  little  gardens,  and  stocked  them  with  trees, 

And  gave  one  to  each  for  his  own. 

Harry  thanked  his  papa,  and  with  rake,  hoe,  and  spade. 

Directly  began  his  employ : 
And  soon  such  a  neat  little  garden  was  made, 

That  he  panted  with  labor  and  joy. 

There  was  always  some  bed  or  some  border  to  mend, 

Or  something  to  tie  or  to  stick  ; 
And  Harry  rose  early  his  garden  to  tend, 

While  snoring  lay  indolent  Dick. 

The  tulip,  the  ro^e,  and  the  lily  so  white, 

United  their  beautiful  bloom  ; 
And  often  the  honey-bee  stopped  from  his  flight 

To  sip  the  delicious  perfume. 


FOR    INFANT  MINDS.  181 

A  neat  row  of  peas  in  full  blossom  were  seen, 
French  beans  were  beginning  to  shoot  • 

And  his  gooseberries  and  currants,  though  yet  they  were 
green, 
Foretold  him  a  plenty  of  fruit. 

But  Richard  loved  better  in  bed  to  repose, 

And  snug  as  he  curled  himself  round, 
Forgot  that  no  tulip,  nor  lily,  nor  rose, 

Nor  plant  in  his  garden  was  found. 

Rank  weeds  and  tall  nettles  disfigured  his  beds, 

Nor  cabbage  nor  lettuce  were  seen, 
The  slug  and  the  snail  showed  their  mischievous  heads, 

And  eat  every  leaf  that  was  green. 

Thus  Richard  the  idle,  who  shrunk  from  the  cold, 

Beheld  his  trees  naked  and  bare  ; 
Whilst  Harry  the  active  was  charmed  to  behold 

The  fruit  of  his  patience  and  care.  an>\ 


MY  MOTHER. 

Who  fed  me  from  her  gentle  hi- 
And  hushed  me  in  her  arms  to  rest, 
And  on  my  cheek  sweet  kisses  pressed  ? 

If  j  Mother. 

When  sleep  forsook  my  open  eye, 

Who  was  it  sang  sweet  lullaby, 

And  rocked  me  that  I  should  not  cry  ? 

My  Mother. 
vol.  v.  16 


182  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

Who  sat  and  watched  my  infant  head, 
When  sleeping  on  my  cradle  bed, 
And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed  ? 

My  Mother. 

When  pain  and  sickness  made  me  cry, 
Who  gazed  upon  my  heavy  eye, 
And  wept  for  fear  that  I  should  die  ? 

My  Mother. 

Who  dressed  my  doll  in  clothes  so  gay, 
And  taught  me  pretty  how  to  play, 
And  minded  all  I  had  to  say  ? 

My  Mother. 

Who  ran  to  help  me  when  I  fell, 
And  would  some  pretty  story  tell, 
Or  kiss  the  place  to  make  it  well  ? 

My  Mother. 

Who  taught  my  infant  lips  to  pray, 
And  love  God's  holy  book  and  day, 
And  walk  in  wisdom's  pleasant  way? 

My  Mother. 

And  can  1  ever  cease  to  be 
Affectionate  and  kind  to  thee, 
Who  was  so  very  kind  to  me  ? 

My  Mother. 

Ah !  no,  the  thought  I  cannot  bear, 
And  if  God  please  my  life  to  spare, 
I  hope  I  shall  reward  thy  care, 

My  Mother 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  183 

When  thou  art  feeble,  old,  and  gray, 
My  healthy  arms  shall  be  thy  stay, 
And  I  will  soothe  thy  pains  away, 

My  Mother. 

And  when  I  see  thee  hang  thy  head, 
'T  will  be  my  turn  to  watch  thy  bed, 
And  tears  of  sweet  affection  shed, 

My  Mother. 

For  God,  who  lives  above  the  skies, 
Would  look  with  vengeance  in  his  eyes, 
If  I  should  ever  dare  despise 

My  Mother. 


MY  FATHER. 

Who  took  me  from  my  mother's  arms, 

And.  smiling  at  her  soft  alarms, 

Showed  me  the  world  and  nature's  charms  ? 

My  Father. 

Who  made  me  feel  and  understand 

The  wonders  of  the  sea  and  land, 

And  mark,  through  all,  the  Maker's  hand  ? 

My  Father. 

Who  climbed  with  me  the  mountain  height, 
And  watched  my  look  of  dread  delight, 
While  rose  the  glorious  orb  of  light  ? 

My  Father. 


184  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

Who,  from  each  flower,  and  verdant  stalk, 
Gathered  a  honeyed  store  of  talk, 
To  fill  the  long,  delightful  walk  ? 

My  Father. 

Not  on  an  insect  would  he  tread ; 
Nor  strike  the  stinging  nettle  dead ; 
Who  taught  at  once  my  heart  and  head  ? 

My  Father. 

Who  wrote  upon  that  heart  the  line 
Religion  graved  on  Virtue's  shrine, 
To  make  the  human  race  divine  ? 

My  Father. 

Who  taught  my  early  mind  to  know 
The  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow, 
Creator  of  all  things  below  ? 

My  Father. 

Who  now,  in  pale  and  placid  light 
Of  memory,  gleams  upon  my  sight, 
Bursting  the  sepulchre  of  night  ? 

My  Father. 

Oh  !  teach  me  still  the  christian  plan ! 
Thy  practice  with  thy  precept  ran  : 
Nor  yet  desert  me  now  a  man, 

My  Father. 

Still  let  thy  scholar's  heart  rejoice, 
With  charms  of  thy  angelic  voice, 
Still  prompt  the  motive  and  the  choice, 

My  Father. 


FOR   INFANT    MINDS.  H5 

For  yet  remains  a  little  space, 
Till  I  shall  meet  thee  face  to  face : 
And  not,  as  now,  in  vain  embrace, 

My  Father. 

Soon,  and  before  the  Mercy-seat, 
Spirits  made  perfect — we  shall  meet ! 
Thee  with  what  transport  shall  I  greet, 

My  Father  ? 


THE  PALACE  AND  COTTAGE. 

High  on  a  mountain's  haughty  steep 

Lord  Hubert's  palace  stood  ; 
Before  it  rolled  a  river  deep, 

Behind  it  waved  a  wood. 

Low  in  an  unfrequented  vale, 

A  peasant  built  his  cell  ; 
Sweet  flowers  perfumed  the  cooling  gale, 

And  graced  his  garden  well. 

Loud  riot  through  lord  Hubert's  hall 

In  noisy  clamors  rang : 
He  scarcely  closed  his  eyes  at  all, 

Till  breaking  day  began. 

In  scenes  of  quiet  and  repose 
Young  William's  life  was  spent ; 

With  morning's  early  beam  he  rose, 
And  whistled  as  he  went. 


186  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

On  sauces  rich,  and  viands  fine, 

Lord  Hubert  daily  fed  ; 
His  goblet  filled  with  sparkling  wine, 

His  board  with  dainties  spread. 

Warm  from  the  sickle  or  the  plough, 

His  heart  as  light  as  air, 
His  garden  ground,  and  dappled  cow, 

Supplied  young  William's  fare. 

On  beds  of  down  beset  with  gold, 

With  satin  curtains  drawn, 
His  feverish  limbs  lord  Hubert  rolled, 

From  midnight's  gloom  to  morn. 

Stretched  on  a  hard  and  flocky  bed, 

The  cheerful  rustic  lay  ; 
And  sweetest  slumbers  lulled  his  head, 

From  eve  to  breaking  day. 

Fever,  and  gout,  and  aches,  and  pains, 
Destroyed  lord  Hubert's  rest ; 

Disorder  bun  it  in  all  his  veins, 
And  sickened  in  his  breast. 

A  stranger  to  the  ills  of  wealth, 

Behind  his  rugged  plough, 
The  cheek  of  William  glowed  with  health, 

And  cheerful  was  his  brow. 

No  gentle  friend,  to  soothe  his  pain, 
Sat  near  lord  Hubert's  bed ; 

His  friends  and  servants,  light  and  vain, 
From  scenes  of  sorrow  fled. 


FOR    INFANT    MINDS.  187 

But  when  on  William's  honest  head 

Time  scattered  silver  hairs, 
His  wife  and  children,  round  his  bed, 

Partook  and  soothed  his  cares. 

The  solemn  hearse,  the  waving  plume, 

A  train  of  mourners  grim, 
Carried  lord  Hubert  to  the  tomb, 

But  no  one  cared  for  him. 

No  weeping  eye,  no  gentle  breast, 

Lamented  his  decay, 
Nor  round  his  costly  coffin  pressed, 

To  gaze  upon  his  clay. 

But  when  upon  his  dying  bed 

Old  William  came  to  lie, 
When  clammy  sweats  had  chilled  his  head, 

And  death  had  dimmed  his  eye ; 

Sweet  tears,  by  fond  affection  dropped, 

From  many  an  eyelid  fell, 
And  many  a  lip,  by  anguish  stopped, 

Half  spoke  the  sad  farewell. 

No  marble  pile,  nor  costly  tomb, 

Describes  where  William  sleeps ; 
But  there  wild  thyme  and  cowslips  bloom, 

And  there  affection  weeps.  ann. 


188  ORIGINAL   POEMS 


BALL. 

My  good  little  fellow,  do  n't  throw  your  ball  there, 

You  '11  break  neighbor's  windows,  I  know ; 
On  the  end  of  the  house  there  is  room  and  to  spare : 
Go  round,  you  can  have  a  delightful  game  there, 
Without  fearing  for  where  you  may  throw. 

Harry  thought  he  might  safely  continue  his  play, 

With  a  little  more  care  than  before  ; 
So  forgetful  of  all  that  his  father  could  say, 
As  soon  as  he  saw  he  was  out  of  the  way, 

He  resolved  to  have  fifty  throws  more. 

Already  as  far  as  to  forty  he  rose, 

And  no  mischief  happened  at  all ; 
One  more,  and  one  more,  he  successfully  throws, 
But  when,  as  he  thought,  just  arrived  at  the  close, 

In  popped  his  unfortunate  ball. 

Poor  Harry  stood  frightened,  and  turning  about, 

Was  gazing  at  what  he  had  done ; 
As  the  ball  had  popped  in,  so  neighbor  popped  out, 
And  with  a  good  horsewhip  he  beat  him  about, 

Till  Harry  repented  his  fun. 

When  little  folks  think  they  know  better  than  great, 

And  what  is  forbidden  them  do  ; 
We  must  always  expect  to  see,  sooner  or  late, 
That  such  wise  little  fools  have  a  similar  fate, 

And  that  one  of  the  fifty  goes  through.  ann. 


FOR    INFANT   MINDS.  189 


THE  FOX  AND  THE  CROW. 

The  fox  and  the  crow, 

In  prose  I  well  know 
Many  good  little  girls  can  rehearse  ; 

Perhaps  it  will  tell 

Pretty  nearly  as  well, 
If  we  try  the  same  fable  in  verse. 

In  a  dairy  a  crow 

Having  ventured  to  go, 
Some  food  for  her  young  ones  to  seek, 

Flew  up  in  the  trees, 

With  a  fine  piece  of  cheese, 
Which  she  joyfully  held  in  her  beak. 

A  fox  who  lived  nigh, 

To  the  tree  saw  her  fly, 
And  to  share  in  the  prize  made  a  vow ! 

For  having  just  dined, 

He  for  cheese  felt  inclined, 
So  he  went  and  sat  under  the  bough, 

She  was  cunning,  he  knew, 

But  so  was  he  too, 
And  with  flattery  adapted  his  plan  ; 

For  he  knew  if  she  'd  speak, 

It  must  fall  from  her  beak, 
So  bowing  politely,  began : 

'  'T  is  a  very  fine  day ; ' 
(  Not  a  word  did  she  say  ;) 
4  The  wind,  I  believe,  ma'am,  is  south ; 


190  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

A  fine  harvest  for  pease  : ' 
He  then  looked  at  the  cheese, 
But  the  Crow  did  n't  open  her  mouth. 

Sly  Reynard,  not  tired, 

Her  plumage  admired, 
'  How  charming !  how  brilliant  its  hue ! 

The  voice  must  be  fine 

Of  a  bird  so  divine, 
Ah !  let  me  just  hear  it — pray  do. 

'  Believe  me,  I  long 

To  hear  a  sweet  song.' 
The  silly  crow  foolishly  tries. 

She  scarce  gave  one  squall, 

When  the  cheese  she  let  fall, 
And  the  fox  ran  away  with  the  prize. 

MORAL. 

Ye  innocent  fair, 

Of  coxcombs  beware, 
To  flattery  never  give  ear ; 

Try  well  each  pretence, 

And  keep  to  plain  sense, 
And  then  ve  have  little  to  fear. 


LITTLE    D. 


THE  MOTHER'S  WISH. 

May  cloudless  beams  of  grace  and  truth 
Adorn  my  daughter's  opening  youth ; 
Long,  happy  in  her  native  home, 
Among  its  fragrant  groves  to  roam. 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  191 

May  choicest  blessings  her  attend, 
Blessed  in  her  parents,  sisters,  friend  ! 
May  no  rude  wish  assail  her  breast, 
To  love  this  world,  by  all  confessed 
As  only  given  us  to  prepare 
For  one  eternal,  bright,  and  fair. 
This  world  shall  then  no  force  retain, 
Its  syren  voice  shall  charm  in  vain ; 
Religion's  aid  true  peace  shall  bring, 
Her  voice  with  joy  shall  praises  sing, 
To  him  whose  streams  of  mercy  flow 
To  cheer  the  heart  o'ercharged  with  wo  ; 
And  whilst  retirement's  sweets  we  prove, 
For  ever  praise  redeeming  love. 

WRITTEN    AT    BARMING. 


TO  MARIA. 


How  happy  the  days  of  your  youth, 
Instructed  in  virtue  and  truth, 

By  the  parents  you  love  and  revere. 
Your  dwelling  is  healthy  and  neat, 
Of  sisters  so  dear  the  retreat, 

And  of  neighbors  abundance  are  near. 

Oh  think  whence  these  blessings  arise, 
From  a  being  so  gracioifs  and  wise. 

And  should  they  by  him  be  withdrawn; 
Should  every  degree  of  distress, 
My  dearest  of  daughters  oppress, 

When  torn  from  the  sweet  verdant  lawn , 


192  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

From  what  must  she  then  seek  relief, 
When  her  mind  is  disturbed  with  grief, 

But  from  God  who  but  chastens  to  bless  ? 
Fine  garments,  rich  food,  and  bright  wine, 
With  which  the  voluptuous  dine, 

Enervate  beyond  all  redress. 

In  the  sad  sober  moments  of  wo, 
Which  each  mortal  is  destined  to  know, 

With  joy  will  a  Christian  perceive, 
That  life  as  a  vision  recedes, 
That  faith  rendered  bright  by  good  deeds, 

A  blessed  reward  will  receive. 

Should  you  as  a  mother  or  wife, 
Be  called  on  to  act  in  this  life, 

Oh  !  strive  every  virtue  to  trace  : 
On  the  minds  you  may  have  to  attend, 
Join  at  once  the  kind  mother  and  friend, 

And  pray  for  their  virtue  and  grace. 

WRITTEN   AT    BARMING. 


THE    SNAIL. 

The  snail,  how  he  creeps  slowly  over  the  wall, 
He  seems  not  to  make  any  progress  at  all, 

About  where  you  leave  him  you  find  him : 
His  long  shining  body  he  stretches  out  well, 
And  drags  along  with  him  his  round  hollow  shell, 

And  leaves  a  bright  path- way  behind  him. 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  193 

Do  look,  said  young  Tom,  at  that  lazy  old  snail, 
He  's  almost  an  hour  crawling  over  a  pale, 

Enough  all  one's  patience  to  worry ; 
Now,  if  I  were  he,  I  would  gallop  away, 
Half  over  the  world — twenty  miles  in  a  day, 

And  turn  business  off  in  a  hurry. 

Well,  Tom,  said  his  father,  but  as  1  'm  afraid 
That  into  a  snail  you  can  never  be  made, 

But  still  must  remain  a  young  master: 
As  such  sort  of  wishes  can  nothing  avail, 
Take  a  hint  for  yourself  from  your  jokes  on  the  snail, 

And  do  your  own  work  rather  faster.  j.  t. 


THE  HOLYDAYS. 

Ah  !  do  n't  you  remember  't  is  almost  December, 
And  soon  will  the  holydays  come  ? 

O  !  't  will  be  so  funny,  I  've  plenty  of  money, 
I  '11  buy  me  a  sword  and  a  drum. 

Thus  said  little  Harry,  unwilling  to  tarry, 

Impatient  to  hurry  from  school ; 
But  we  shall  discover,  this  holyday-lover 

Spoke  both  like  a  child  and  a  fool. 

For  when  he  alighted,  so  highly  delighted, 

Away  from  his  sums  and  his  books, 
Though  playthings  surrounded,  and  sweetmeats 
abounded, 
Chagrin  still  appeared  in  his  looks. 
vol.  v.  17 


194  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

Though  first  they  delighted,  his  toys  were  now  slighted, 

And  thrown  away  out  of  his  sight ; 
He  spent  every  morning  in  stretching  and  yawning, 

Yet  went  to  bed  weary  at  night. 

He  had  not  that  treasure  which  really  makes  pleasure, 

(A  secret  discovered  by  few,) 
You  '11  take  it  for  granted,  more  playthings  he  wanted, 

O  no — it  was  something  to  do. 

He  found  that  employment  created  enjoyment, 

And  passed  the  time  cheerful  away ; 
That  study  and  reading,  by  far  were  exceeding 

His  cakes,  and  his  toys,  and  his  play. 

To  school  now  returning,  to  study  and  learning, 

With  pleasure  did  Harry  apply ; 
He  felt  no  aversion  to  books,  't  was  diversion, 

And  caused  him  to  smile,  not  to  sigh. 


OLD  SARAH. 

With  haggard  eye  and  wrinkled  face, 
Old  Sarah  goes,  with  tott'ring  pace, 

From  door  to  door  to  beg ; 
With  gypsy  hat  and  tattered  gown, 
And  petticoat  of  dirty  brown, 

And  many-colored  leg. 

No  blazing  fire,  no  cheerful  home, 
She  wanders  comfortless  and  lone, 
While  winds  and  tempests  blow  ; 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  195 

And  every  traveller  passing  by, 
She  follows  with  a  doleful  cry, 
Of  poverty  and  wo. 

But  see  !  her  arm  no  basket  bears, 
With  laces  gay  and  wooden  wares, 

And  garters,  blue  and  red ; 
To  stroll  about  and  drink  her  gin, 
She  loves  far  better  than  to  spin, 

Or  work  to  earn  her  bread. 

Old  Sarah  every  body  knows, 
Nor  is  she  pitied  as  she  goes, 

A  melancholy  sight ; 
For  people  do  not  like  to  give 
Their  alms  to  those  who  idle  live, 

And  won't  work  when  they  might.  j.  t. 


OLD  SUSAN. 

Old  Susan,  in  a  cottage  small, 

Though  low  the  roof,  and  mud  the  wall, 

And  goods  a  scanty  store, 
Enjoys  within  her  peaceful  shed, 
Her  wholesome  crust  of  barley  bread, 

Nor  does  she  covet  more. 

Though  old  and  feeble  she  must  feel, 
She  daily  plies  her  spinningwheel, 

Within  her  cottage  gate  ; 
And  thus  with  industry  and  care, 
Though  low  her  purse  and  hard  her  fare, 

She  envies  not  the  great. 


196  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

A  decent  gown  she  always  wears, 
Though  many  an  ancient  patch  it  bears, 

And  many  a  one  that 's  new : 
No  dirt  is  seen  within  her  door, 
Red  sand  she  sprinkles  on  the  floor, 

As  tidy  people  do 

Old  Susan  every  body  knew, 
And  every  one  respected,  too, 

Her  industry  and  care ; 
And  when  in  sickness  or  in  wo, 
Her  neighbors  gladly  would  bestow 

The  little  they  could  spare.  j.  t. 


THE  GLEANER. 

Before  the  bright  sun  rises  over  the  hill, 

In  the  cornfield  poor  Mary  is  seen, 
Impatient  her  little  blue  apron  to  fill 

With  the  few  scattered  ears  she  can  glean. 

She  never  leaves  on;  nor  runs  out  of  her  place, 

To  play,  or  to  idle,  and  chat ; 
Except  now  and  then  just  to  wipe  her  hot  face, 

And  fan  herself  with  her  broad  hat. 

'  Poor  girl,  hard  at  work  in  the  heat  of  the  sun, 

How  tired  and  hot  you  must  be : 
Why  do  n't  you  leave  off  as  the  others  have  done, 

And  sit  with  them  under  the  tree  ?  \ 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  197 

c  Oh  no  !  for  my  mother  lies  ill  in  her  bed, 

Too  feeble  to  spin  or  to  knit ; 
And  my  poor  little  brothers  are  crying  for  bread, 

And  yet  we  can  't  give  them  a  bit  ? 

<  Then  could  I  be  merry,  and  idle,  and  play, 

While  they  are  so  hungry  and  ill  ? 
O  no,  I  had  rather  work  hard  all  the  day, 

My  little  blue  apron  to  fill.' 


SNOW. 


O  come  to  the  window,  dear  brother,  and  see, 
What  mischief  was  done  in  the  night ; 

The  snow  has  quite  covered  the  nice  apple-tree, 
And  the  bushes  are  sprinkled  with  white. 

The  spring  in  the  grove  is  beginning  to  freeze, 

The  pond  is  hard  frozen  all  o'er ; 
Long  icicles  hang  in  bright  rows  from  the  trees, 

And  drop  in  odd  shapes  from  the  door. 

The  old  mossy  thatch,  and  the  meadows  so  green, 

Are  covered  all  over  with  white  ; 
The  snow-drop  and  crocus  no  more  can  be  seen, 

The  thick  snow  has  covered  them  quite. 

And  see  the  poor  birds  how  they  fly  to  and  fro, 
They  're  come  for  their  breakfast  again ; 

But  the  little  worms  all  are  hid  under  the  snow, 
They  hop  about  chirping  in  vain. 
17 


198  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

Then  open  the  window,  I  '11  throw  them  some  bread, 

I  've  some  of  my  breakfast  to  spare : 
I  wish  they  would  come  to  my  hand  to  be  fed, 

But  they  're  all  flown  away,  I  declare. 

Nay,  now,  pretty  birds,  do  n't  be  frightened,  I  pray, 

You  shall  not  be  hurt  I  '11  engage  ; 
I  'm  not  come  to  catch  you  and  force  you  away, 

And  fasten  you  up  in  a  cage. 

I  wish  you  could  know  you  've  no  cause  for  alarm, 

From  me  you  have  nothing  to  fear ; 
Why,  my  little  fingers  could  do  you  no  harm, 

Although  you  came  ever  so  near.  j.  t. 


THE  PIGS. 

Do  look4at  those  pigs  as  they  lay  in  the  straw, 

Little  Richard  said  to  his  pa ; — 
They  keep  eating  longer  than  ever  I  saw, 

What  nasty  fat  gluttons  they  are. 

I  see  they  are  feasting,  his  father  replied, 

They  eat  a  great  deal,  I  allow : 
But  let  us  remember,  before  we  deride, 

'T  is  the  nature,  my  dear,  of  a  sow. 

But  when  a  great  boy,  such  as  you,  my  dear  Dick, 

Does  nothing  but  eat  all  the  day, 
And  keeps  sucking  good  things  till  he  makes  himself  sick, 

What  a  glutton  !  indeed,  w7e  may  say. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  199 

When  plumcake  and  sugar  for  ever  he  picks, 

And  sweetmeats  and  comfits,  and  figs ; 
Pray  let  him  get  rid  of  his  own  nasty  tricks, 

And  then  he  may  laugh  at  the  pigs.  j.  t. 


FINERY. 


In  a  frock  neatly  trimmed  with  a  beautiful  lace, 
And  hair  nicely  dressed,  hanging  over  her  face, 
Thus  decked,  Harriet  went  to  the  house  of  a  friend, 
With  a  large  little  party  the  evening  to  spend. 

Ah  !  how  they  will  all  be  delighted,  I  guess, 
And  stare  with  surprise  at  my  elegant  dress ; 
Thus  said  the  vain  girl,  and  her  little  heart  beat, 
Impatient  the  happy  young  party  to  meet. 

But  alas !  they  were  all  too  intent  on  their  fun, 
To  observe  the  gay  clothes  this  fine  lady  had  on ; 
And  thus  all  her  trouble  quite  lost  its  design, 
For  they  saw  she  was  proud,  but  forgot  she  was  fine. 

T  was  Lucy,  though  only  in  simple  white  clad, 
(Nor  trimmings,  nor  laces,  nor  jewels  she  had) 
Whose  cheerful  good-nature  delighted  them  more, 
Than  all  the  fine  garments  that  Harriet  wore. 

'T  is  better  to  have  a  sweet  smile  on  one's  face, 
Than  to  wear  a  rich  frock  with  an  elegant  lace, 
For  the  good-natured  girl  is  loved  best  in  the  main 
If  her  dress  is  but  decent,  though  ever  so  plain.        j.  t. 


200  ORIGINAL    POEMS 


CRAZY  ROBERT. 

Poor  Robert  is  crazy — his  hair  is  turned  gray, 

His  beard  is  grown  long,  and  hangs  down  to  Ins  breast ; 

Misfortune  has  taken  his  reason  away, 

His  heart  has  no  comfort,  his  head  has  no  rest. 

Poor  man,  it  would  please  me  to  soften  thy  woes, 
To  soothe  thy  affliction,  and  yield  thee  support : 

But  see,  through  the  village,  wherever  he  goes, 
The  cruel  boys  follow,  and  turn  him  to  sport. 

'T  is  grievous  to  see  how  the  pitiless  mob 

Run  round  him  and  mimic  his  mournful  complaint, 

And  try  to  provoke  him,  and  call  him  old  Bob, 
And  hunt  him  about  till  he  's  ready  to  faint. 

But  ah !  wicked  children,  I  fear  they  forget 
That  God  does  their  cruel  diversion  behold ; 

And  that  in  his  book  dreadful  curses  are  writ, 

For  those  who  shall  mock  at  the  poor  and  the  old. 

Poor  Robert,  thy  troubles  will  shortly  be  o'er, 
Forgot  in  the  grave  thy  misfortunes  will  be ; 

But  God  will  his  vengeance  assuredly  pour 

On  those  wicked  children  who  persecute  thee.      j.  t. 


EMPLOYMENT. 

Who  'll  come  and  play  with  me  here  under  the  tree, 

My  sisters  have  left  me  alone  ; 
My  sweet  little  Sparrow,  come  hither  to  me, 

And  play  with  me  while  they  are  gone. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  201 

0  no,  little  lady,  I  can  't  come,  indeed, 
I  've  no  time  to  idle  away, 

1  Ve  got  all  my  dear  little  children  to  feed, 
And  my  nest  to  new  cover  with  hay. 

Pretty  Bee,  do  not  buzz  about  over  the  flower, 

But  come  here  and  play  with  me,  do : 
The  Sparrow  won't  come  and  stay  with  me  an  hour, 

But  stay,  pretty  Bee — will  not  you  ? 

0  no,  little  lady,  for  do  not  you  see, 
Those  must  work  who  would  prosper  and  thrive, 

If  I  play,  they  would  call  me  a  sad  idle  bee, 
And  perhaps  turn  me  out  of  the  hive. 

Stop !  stop !  little  Ant — do  not  run  off  so  fast, 
Wait  with  me  a  little  and  play : 

1  hope  I  shall  rind  a  companion  at  last, 
You  are  not  so  busy  as  they. 

0  no,  little  lady,  I  can  't  stay  with  you, 
We  're  not  made  to  play,  but  to  labor: 

1  always  have  something  or  other  to  do, 
If  not  for  myself,  for  a  neighbor. 

What  then,  have  they  all  some  employment  but  me, 


Who  lay  lounging  here  like  a  dunce  ? 
O  then,  like  the  Ant,  and  the  Sparrow,  and  Bee, 
I  '11  go  to  my  lesson  at  once.  j.  t. 


202  ORIGINAL    POEMS 


THE  FIGHTING  BIRDS. 

Two  little  birds,  in  search  of  food, 

Flew  o'er  the  fields,  and  skimmed  the  flood, 

At  last  a  worm  they  spy ; 
But  who  should  take  the  prize  they  strove, 
Their  quarrel  sounded  through  the  grove, 

In  notes  both  shrill  and  high. 

But  now  a  hawk,  whose  piercing  sight 

Had  marked  his  prey,  and  watched  their  fight, 

With  certain  aim  descended : 
And  pouncing  on  their  furious  strife, 
He  stopped  their  battle  with  their  life, 

And  so  the  war  was  ended. 

Thus,  when  in  discord  brothers  live, 
And  frequent  bJows  of  anger  give, 

With  hate  their  bosoms  rending ; 
In  life,  with  rogues  perchance  they  meet, 
To  take  advantage  of  their  heat, 

Their  lives  in  sorrow  ending.  j.  t. 


CREATION. 

Come,  child,  look  upwards  to  the  sky, 

Behold  the  sun  and  moon, 
Th'  expanse  of  stars  that  sparkle  high, 

To  cheer  the  midnight  gloom. 


FOR  INFANT   MINDS.  203 

Come,  child,  and  now  behold  the  earth 

In  varied  beauty  stand : 
The  product  view  of  six  days'  birth, 

How  wond'rous  and  how  grand ! 

The  fields,  the  meadows,  and  the  plain, 

The  little  laughing  hills, 
The  waters  too,  the  mighty  main, 

The  rivers  and  the  rills. 

Come  then,  behold  them  all  and  say, 

1  How  came  these  things  to  be  ? 
That  stand  before,  which  ever  way 

I  turn  myself  to  see  ?' 

'T  was  God  who  made  the  earth  and  sea, 

To  whom  the  angels  bow  ; 
'T  was  God  who  made  both  thee  and  me, 

The  God  who  sees  us  now.  J.  t. 


THE   TEMPEST. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  tempest's  hollow  sound/ 
The  bursting  thunder  and  the  rain, 

While  dense  and  heavy  clouds  unbound, 
In  torrents  fall  upon  the  plain. 

See  too  the  lightning's  vivid  flash, 
In  quick  succession  fire  the  sky  ; 

All  form  a  universal  crash 
Of  elements  at  enmitv. 


204  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

The  solid  earth,  as  if  with  fear, 
Trembles  beneath  the  mighty  War : 

The  waters,  too,  in  mountains  rear, 
Loosed  from  the  yoke  of  nature's  law. 

Behold  the  bellowing  herds  the  heath 
Forsake  with  haste,  for  shelter  fled ; 

While  shepherds  fly,  with  panting  breath, 
In  equal  speed  and  greater  dread. 

And  see  yon  ancient  massive  oak, 
The  forest's  pride,  for  ages  stood, 

Its  sturdy  stem  in  shivers  broke, 

Its  head  driv'n  downwards  in  the  flood. 

Tossed  by  the  waves,  the  wretched  bark 

Alternate  see  it  sink  and  rise  ; 
Now  fixed  on  rocks,  a  shattered  mark 

For  furious  winds  and  billows,  lies. 

In  vain  the  drowning  sailors  cry, 

Their  shrieks  are  lost  while  thunders  roar  ; 

In  vain  their  moans,  no  help  is  nigh, 
Or  ship  or  hospitable  shore. 

And  does  this  tempest  rage  in  vain  ? 

And  does  no  power,  with  potent  arm, 
Its  fury  suffer  or  restrain, 

From  injuring  hold,  or  guide  the  harm? 

Ah  yes — a  power  indeed  presides — 
Yes,  there  's  a  potent  Being  reigns ; 

Above  the  storm  the  Almighty  rides — 
These  awful  scenes  't  is  he  ordains. 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  205 

Then  calm  each  fear,  and  silent  stand 

To  learn  his  wisdom  and  his  care, 
The  flash,  unloosed  from  out  his  hand, 

Proclaims  in  thunder — God  is  there.  j.  t. 


ADDRESS  TO  AN  INFANT. 

Welcome,  happy  little  stranger, 

To  this  busy  world  of  care  ! 
Nothing  can  thy  peace  endanger, 

Nothing  now  thy  steps  ensnare- 
Precious  Babe  !  thou  art  excluded 

From  all  thought  of  trouble  near ; 
No  distress  has  yet  intruded, 

Keen  remorse,  nor  restless  fear. 

Innocence  and  peace  attend  thee ! 

Balmy  slumbers  now  are  thine — 
Every  change  to  thee  is  friendly : 

Love  and  Joy  around  thee  shine. 

Yet,  alas !    behind  the  curtain, 
Tribulation  veils  her  form  ; 

Disappointment's  stamp  is  certain  ; 
Virtue  only  shields  from  harm. 

Now  a  mother's  care  is  wanted  ; 
All  thy  cravings  are  supplied ; 
All  thy  infant  claims  are  granted ; 

Not  one  comfort  is  denied. 
vol.  v.  18 


206  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

How  her  bosom  pants  with  pleasure  I 
All  her  feelings  are  awake : 

Gladly  would  she,  little  treasure, 
All  thy  pains  and  sufferings  take. 

Mayst  thou,  if  designed  by  heaven 
Future  days  and  years  to  see, 

Soothe  her,  make  her  passage  even, 
Let  her  heart  rejoice  in  thee  ! 

May  her  anxious  care  and  labors 

Be  repaid  by  filial  love  ; 
And  thy  soul  be  crowned  with  favors 

From  the  boundless  source  above. 


TURNIP  TOPS. 

While  yet  the  white  frost  sparkles  over  the  ground, 
And  daylight  just  peeps  from  the  misty  blue  sky, 

In  yonder  green  fields,  with  my  basket  I  'm  found ; 
Come  buy  my  sweet  turnip  tops — turnip  tops  buy. 

Sadly  cold  are  my  fingers,  all  drenched  with  the  dew, 
For  the  sun  has  scarce  risen  the  meadows  to  dry, 

And  my  feet  have  got  wet  with  a  hole  in  my  shoe, 
Come  haste  then,  and  buy  my  sweet  turnip  tops,  buy 

While  you  were  asleep  with  your  bed  curtains  drawn, 
On  pillows  of  down,  in  your  chambers  so  high, 

I  tripped  with  the  first  rosy  beam  of  the  morn 

To  cull  the  green  tops — come,  my  turnip  tops  buy. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  207 

Then,  with  the  few  halfpence  or  pence  I  can  earn, 
A  loaf  for  my  poor  mammy's  breakfast  I  '11  buy : 

And  to-morrow  again,  little  Ann  shall  return 

With  turnip  tops  green  and  fresh  gathered,  to  cry. 


THE  VULGAR  LITTLE  LADY. ' 

■  But  mamma,  now,'  said  Charlotte,   '  pray  do  n't  you 
believe 

That  I  'm  better  than  Jenny,  my  nurse  ? 
Only  see  my  red  shoes,  and  the  lace  on  my  sleeve ; 

Her  clothes  are  a  thousand  times  worse. 

I  ride  in  a  coach,  and  have  nothing  to  do, 

And  the  country  folks  stare  at  me  so  : 
And  nobody  dares  to  control  me  but  you, 
Because  I  'm  a  lady,  you  know. 

<  Then  servants  are  vulgar,  and  I  am  genteel, 

They  are  creatures  that  nobody  knows, 
So  I  'm  sure  now,  mamma,  that  I  'm  better  a  deal, 

Than  maids,  and  such  people  as  those.' 

1  True  gentility,  Charlotte,'  her  mother  replied, 

1  Is  confined  to  no  station  or  place, 
And  nothing  's  so  vulgar  as  folly  and  pride, 

Though  dressed  in  red  slippers  and  lace. 

'  Not  all  the  fine  things  that  fine  ladies  possess, 
Should  teach  them  the  poor  to  despise, 

For  't  is  in  good  manners,  and  not  in  good  dress, 
That  the  truest  gentility  lies.' 


208  ORIGINAL   POEMS 


THE  HORSE. 

A  horse,  long  used  to  bit  and  bridle, 
But  always  much  disposed  to  idle, 
Had  often  wished  that  he  was  able 
To  steal  unnoticed  from  the  stable. 

He  panted,  from  his  inmost  soul, 
To  be  at  nobody's  control, 
Go  his  own  pace,  slower  or  faster, 
In  short,  do  nothing — like  his  master. 

But  yet,  he  ne'er  had  got  at  large, 
If  Jack  (who  had  him  in  his  charge) 
Had  not,  as  many  have  before, 
Forgot  to  shut  the  stable  door. 

Dobbin,  with  expectation  swelling, 
Now  rose  to  quit  his  present  dwelling, 
But  first  peeped  out,  with  cautious  fear, 
T'  examine  if  the  coast  was  clear. 

At  length  he  ventured  from  his  station, 
And  with  extreme  self-approbation, 
As  if  delivered  from  a  load, 
He  galloped  to  the  public  road. 

And  here  he  stood  awhile  debating, 
(Till  he  was  almost  tired  of  waiting) 
Which  way  he  'd  please  to  bend  his  course, 
Now  there  was  nobody  to  force. 


FOR   INFANT    MINDS.  209 

At  last,  unchecked  by  bit  or  rein, 
He  sauntered  down  a  pleasant  lane, 
And  neighed  forth  many  a  jocund  song, 
In  triumph  as  he  passed  along. 

But  when  dark  night  began  t'  appear, 
In  vain  he  sought  some  shelter  near, 
And  he  was  sure  he  could  not  bear 
To  sleep  out  in  the  open  air. 

The  grass  felt  very  damp  and  raw, 
Much  colder  than  his  master's  straw, 
Yet  on  it  lie  was  forced  to  stretch, 
A  poor,  cold,  melancholy  wretch. 

The  night  was  dark,  the  country  hilly. 
Poor  Dobbin  feh  extremely  chilly; 
Perhaps  a  feeling  'ike  remorse, 
Just  now  might  sting  the  gentle  horse. 

As  soon  as  day  began  to  dawn, 
Dobbin,  with  lomr  am]  weary  yawn, 
Arose  from  this  his  sleepless  night, 
But  in  low  spirits  and  bad  plight. 

If  this  (thought  he)  is  all  I  get 
A  bed  unwholesome,  cold,  and  wet ; 
And  thus  forlorn  about  to  roam, 
I  think  I  'd  better  be  at  home. 

'T  was  long  ere  Dobbin  could  decide, 
Betwixt  his  wishes  and  his  pride, 
Whether  to  live  in  all  this  danger, 
Or  go  back  sneaking  to  the  manger. 
18* 


210  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

At  last  his  struggling  pride  gave  way.; 
The  thought  of  savory  oats  and  hay 
To  hungry  stomach,  was  a  reason 
Unanswerable  at  this  season. 

So  off  he  set,  with  look  profound, 

Right  glad  that  he  was  homeward  bound ; 

And  trotting  fast  as  he  was  able, 

Soon  gained  once  more  his  master's  stable. 

Now  Dobbin,  after  this  disaster, 
Never  again  forsook  his  master, 
Convinced  't  was  best  to  let  him  mount, 
Than  travelling  on  his  own  account 


MEDDLESOME  MATTY. 

Oh,  how  one  ugly  trick  has  spoiled 
The  sweetest  and  the  best ! 

Matilda,  though  a  pleasant  child, 
One  ugly  trick  possessed. 

Which,  like  a  cloud  before  the  skies, 

Hid  all  her  better  qualities. 

Sometimes  she  'd  lift  the  tea-pot  lid, 
To  peep  at  what  was  in  it ; 

Or  tilt  the  kettle,  if  you  did 
But  turn  your  back  a  minute. 

In  vain  you  told  her  not  to  touch, 

Her  trick  of  meddling  grew  so  much. 


FOR  INFANT   MINDS.  211 

Her  grandmamma  went  out  one  day, 

And  by  mistake  she  laid 
Her  spectacles  and  snuff-box  gay 

Too  near  the  little  maid  ; 
Ah !  well,  thought  she,  I  '11  try  them  on, 
As  soon  as  grandmamma  is  gone. 

Forthwith  she  placed  upon  her  nose 

The  glasses,  large  and  wide  : 
And  looking  round,  as  I  suppose, 

The  snuff-box  too  she  spied. 

0  what  a  pretty  box  is  this, 

1  '11  open  it,  said  little  miss. 

I  know  that  grandmamma  would  say, 

Do  n't  meddle  with  it,  dear: 
But  then,  she  's  far  enough  away, 

And  no  one  else  is  near ; 
Beside,  what  can  there  be  amiss 
In  opening  such  a  box  as  this? 

So  thumb  and  finger  went  to  work 

To  move  the  stubborn  lid  ; 
And  presently,  a  mighty  jirk 

The  mighty  mischief  did  ; 
For  all  at  once,  ah  !  woful  case, 
The  snuff  came  puffing  in  her  face  ! 

Poor  eyes,  and  nose,  and  mouth,  and  chin, 

A  dismal  sight  presented  ; 
And  as  the  snuff  got  further  in, 

Sincerely  she  repented. 
In  vain  she  ran  about  for  ease, 
She  could  do  nothing  else  but  sneeze  ! 


212  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

She  dashed  the  spectacles  away, 
To  wipe  her  tingling  eyes: 

And  as  in  twenty  bits  they  lay, 
Her  grandmamma,  she  spies. 

Hey  day !  and  what  's  the  matter  now? 

Cried  grandmamma,  with  lifted  brow. 

Matilda,  smarting  with  the  pain, 
And  tingling  still,  and  sore, 

Made  many  a  promise,  to  refrain 
From  meddling  evermore  ; 

And  't  is  a  fact,  as  I  have  heard, 

She  ever  since  has  kept  her  word. 


THE  LAST  DYING  SPEECH  AND  CONFESSION 
OF  POOR  PUSS. 

Kind  masters  and  misses,  whoever  yon  be, 
Do  stop  for  a  moment,  and  pity  poor  me ; 
While  here  on  my  death-bed  I  try  to  relate 
3Iy  many  misfortunes,  and  miseries  great. 

My  dear  mother  Tabby,  I  've  often  heard  say, 
That  I  have  been  a  very  fine  cat  in  my  day  ; 
But  the  sorrows  in  which  my  whole  life  has  been 
Have  spoiled  all  my  beauty,  and  killed  me  at  last. 

Poor  thoughtless  young  thing !  if  I  recollect  right, 
I  was  kittened  in  March  on  a  clear  frosty  night ; 
And  before  I  could  see,  or  was  half  a  week  old, 
I  nearly  had  perished,  the  barn  was  so  cold. 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  213 

But  this  chilly  spring,  I  got  pretty  well  over, 
And  moused  in  the  hayloft,  or  played  in  the  clover ; 
And  when  this  displeased  me,  or  mousing  was  stale, 
I  used  to  run  round  and  round,  after  my  tail. 

But  ah  !  my  poor  tail  and  my  pretty  sleek  ears ! 
The  farmer's  boy  cut  them  all  off  with  his  shears  ; 
And  little  I  thought,  when  I  licked  them  so  clean, 
I  should  be  such  a  figure,  not  fit  to  be  seen. 

Some  time  after  this,  when  my  sores  were  all  healed, 
As  I  laid  in  the  sun,  sound  asleep,  in  a  field, 
Miss  Fanny  crept  slily,  and  griping  me  fast, 
Declared  she  had  caught  the  sweet  creature  at  last. 

Ah  !  me,  how  I  struggled  my  freedom  to  gain, 
But  alas!  all  my  kicking  and  scratching  wrere  vain, 
For  she  held  me  so  tight  in  her  pin-a-fore  tied, 
That  before  she  got  home  I  had  like  to  have  died. 

From  this  dreadful  morning  my  sorrows  arose  ; 
Wherever  I  went  I  was  followed  with  blows ; 
Some  kicked  me  for  nothing  while  quietly  sleeping, 
Or  flogged  me  for  daring  the  pantry  to  peep  in. 

And  then  the  great  dog  !  I  shall  never  forget  him  ; 
How  many  's  the  time  Master  Jacky  would  set  him, 
And  while  I  stood  terrified,  all  of  a  quake, 
Cried  *  Hey  cat ;  and  seize  her  boy,  give  her  a  shake.' 

Sometimes,  when  so  hungry  I  could  not  forbear 
Just  taking  a  scrap,  that  I  thought  they  could  spare, 
Oh  !  what  I  have  suffered  with  beating  and  banging, 
Or  starved  for  a  fortnight,  or  threatened  with  hanging. 


i 


214  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

But  kicking,  and  beating,  and  starving,  and  that, 
I  've  borne  with  a  spirit  becoming  a  cat  ; 
There  was  but  one  thing  which  I  could  not  sustain, 
So  great  was  my  sorrow,  so  hopeless  my  pain. 

One  morning,  safe  hid  in  a  warm  little  bed, 
That  down  in  the  stable  I  'd  carefully  spread, 
Three  sweet  little  kittens  as  ever  you  saw, 
I  concealed,  as  I  thought,  in  some  trusses  of  straw. 

I  was  never  so  happy,  I  think,  nor  so  proud, 
I  mewed  to  my  kittens,  and  purred  out  aloud ; 
And  thought  with  delight  of  the  merry  carousing, 
We  'd  have,  when  I  first  took  them  with  me  a  mousing. 

But  how  shall  I  tell  you  the  sorrowful  ditty, 
I  'm  sure  it  would  melt  even  Growler  to  pity, 
For  the  very  next  morning  my  darlings  I  found, 
Lying  dead  by  the  horse-pond,  all  mangled  and  drown'd ! 

Poor  darlings  !  I  dragged  them  along  to  the  stable, 
And  did  all  to  warm  them  a  mother  was  able, 
But  alas !  all  my  licking  and  mewing  were  vain, 
And  I  thought  I  should  ne'er  have  been  happy  again. 

However,  time  gave  me  a  little  relief, 
And  mousing  diverted  the  thoughts  of  my  grief, 
And  at  last  I  began  to  be  gay  and  contented, 
Till  one  dreadful  morning,  forever  repented. 

Miss  Fanny  was  fond  of  a  favorite  sparrow, 
And  often  I  longed  for  a  taste  of  its  marrow  ; 
So,  not  having  eaten  a  morsel  all  day, 
I  flew  to  the  bird-cage  and  tore  it  away. 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  215 

Now  tell  me,  kind  friends,  was  the  like  ever  heard, 
That  a  cat  should  be  killed  just  for  catching  a  bird  ? 
And  I  'm  sure,  not  the  slightest  suspicion  I  had, 
But  that  catching  a  mouse  was  exactly  as  bad. 

Indeed,  I  can  say  with  my  paw  on  my  heart, 

I  would  not  have  acted  a  mischievous  part ; 

But  as  dear  mother  Tabby  was  often  repeating, 

I  thought  birds  and  mice  were  on  purpose  for  eating. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  with  the  noise  of  its  squeaking, 
Miss  Fanny  came  in  while  my  whiskers  were  reeking, 
And  on  my  poor  back  the  hot  poker  flying, 
She  gave  me  those  bruises  of  which  I  am  dying. 

But  I  feel  that  my  breathing  grows  shorter  apace, 
And  cold  clammy  sweats  trickle  down  from  my  face : 
I  forgive  little  Fanny  this  bruise  on  my  side  ; 
She  stopped,  gave  a  sigh,  and  a  struggle,  and  died ! 


NIGHT. 


No  longer  the  beautiful  day. 

Shines  over  the  landscape  so  light; 
The  shadows  of  evening  gray 

Are  closed  in  the  darkness  of  night: 
The  din  of  employment  is  o  'er, 

Not  a  sound  nor  a  whisper  is  heard ; 
The  wagon  bell  tinkles  no  more, 

And  still  is  the  song  of  the  bird. 


216  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

The  landscape,  once  blooming  so  fair, 

With  a  garment  of  flowers  o'erspread  ; 
The  landscape  indeed  is  still  there, 

But  all  its  fair  colors  are  fled. 
The  sun  sinking  under  the  hill, 

No  longer  shoots  bright  to  the  earth  ; 
The  bustle  of  business  is  still, 

And  hushed  is  the  clamor  of  mirth. 

The  busy  hand,  busy  no  more, 

Is  sunk  from  its  labors  to  rest ; 
Closed  tight  every  window  and  door, 

Where  once  the  gay  passengers  pressed, 
The  houses  of  frolic  and  fun 

Are  empty,  and  dreary,  and  dark  ; 
The  din  of  the  coaches  is  done, 

And  the  tired  horse  rests  from  his  work. 

Just  such  is  the  season  of  death, 

Which  comes  upon  each  of  us  fast; 
The  bosom  can  't  flutter  with  breath, 

When  life's  little  daytime  is  past. 
The  blood  freezes  cold  in  its  vein, 

The  heart  sinks  forever  to  rest ; 
Not  a  fancy  flits  over  the  brain, 

Nor  a  sigh  finds  its  way  from  the  breast. 

The  tongue  stiff  and  silent  is  grown, 

The  pale  lips  move  never  again  ; 
The  smile  and  the  dimple  are  flown, 

And  the  voice  both  of  pleasure  and  pain. 
Clay  cold  the  once  feverish  head, 

The  bright  eye  is  sullen  and  dark  ; 
For  death's  gloomy  shadows  have  spread 

That  night  in  which  no  man  can  work. 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  217 

But  as  from  the  silence  and  gloom, 

Another  gay  morning  shall  rise, 
So,  bursting  awake  from  the  tomb, 

We  shall  mount  far  away  to  the  skies. 
And  those,  who  with  meekness  and  prayer 

In  the  paths  of  religion  have  trod, 
Shall  worship  all  glorious  there, 

Among  the  archangels  of  God. 


DAY. 

The  sun  rises  bright  in  the  air, 

The  dews  of  the  morning  are  dry, 
Men  and  beasts  to  their  labors  repair, 

And  the  lark  wings  his  way  to  the  sky : 
Now  fresh  from  his  moss-dappled  shed, 

The  husbandman  trudges  along, 
And  like  the  lark  over  his  head, 

Begins  the  new  day  with  a  song. 

Just  now  all  around  was  so  still, 

Not  a  bird  drew  his  head  from  his  wing ; 
Not  an  echo  was  heard  from  the  hill, 

Not  a  water-fly  dipped  in  the  spring; 
Now,  every  thing  wakes  from  its  sleep, 

The  shepherd  boy  pipes  to  his  flock, 
The  common  is  speckled  with  sheep, 

And  cheerfully  clamors  the  cock. 

Now,  winding  along  on  the  road 
Half  hid  by  the  hedges  so  gay, 

The  wagon  drags  slow  with  its  load, 
And  its  bells  tinkle,  tinkle,  away. 

VOL.    V.  19 


218  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

The  husbandman  follows  his  plough, 
Across  the  brown  fallow  field's  slope, 

And  toils  in  the  sweat  of  his  brow, 
Repaid  by  the  pleasures  of  hope. 

The  city,  so  noisy  and  wide, 

Begins  to  look  smoky  and  gray, 
Now  business,  and  pleasure,  and  pride, 

March  each  in  a  different  way. 
My  lord,  and  my  lady  so  fair, 

The  merchant,  with  dignified  look, 
And  all  to  their  business  repair, 

From  the  nobleman  down  to  his  cook. 

For  the  dews  of  the  morning  have  flown, 

And  the  sun  rises  bright  in  the  sky ; 
Alike  in  the  field  and  the  town, 

Men  and  beasts  to  their  labor  apply, 
And  idle  no  hand  must  remain, 

Nor  eye  sink  in  slumber  so  dark, 
For  evening  is  coming  again, 

And  the  night,  in  which  no  man  can  work. 

And  what  is  our  life  but  a  day  ? 

A  short  one  that  soon  will  be  o'er ; 
Without  stopping  it  gallops  away, 

And  will  never  return  any  more  ! 
Then  while  its  bright  beamings  we  have, 

Let  us  keep  its  grand  business  in  view, 
Before  our  sun  sets  in  the  grave, 

Which  we  know  not  how  soon  it  may  do. 


FOR    INFANT   MINDS.  219 


DEAF   MARTHA. 

Poor  Martha  is  old,  and  her  hair  is  turned  gray, 
And  her  hearing  has  left  her  this  many  long  year ; 

Ten  to  one  if  she  knows  what  it  is  that  you  say, 
Though  she  puts  her  poor  wither'd  hand  close  to  her  ear. 

I  Ve  seen  naughty  children  run  after  her  fast, 
And  cry  '  Martha,  run,  there  's  a  bullock  so  bold,' 

And  when  she  was  frightened,  laugh  at  her  at  last, 
Because  she  believed  the  sad  stories  they  told. 

I  Ve  seen  others  put  their  mouths  close  to  her  ear, 
And  make  signs  as  if  they  had  something  to  say : 

And  when  she  said,  'Master,  I  'm  deaf  and  can't  hear,' 
Point  at  her,  and  mock  her,  and  scamper  away. 

Ah  !  wicked  the  children,  poor  Martha  to  tease, 
As  if  she  had  not  enough  else  to  endure  ; 

They  rather  should  try  her  affliction  to  ease, 
And  soothe  a  disorder  that  nothing  can  cure. 

One  day,  when  those  children  themselves  are  grown  old, 
And  one  may  be  deaf,  and  another  be  lame ; 

Perhaps  they  may  find,  that  sonic  children  as  bold, 
May  tease  them,  and  mock  them,  and  serve  them  the 
same. 

Then,  when  they  reflect  on  the  days  of  their  youth, 
They  '11  think  of  poor  Martha,  and  all  that  they  said, 

And  remember  with  shame  and  repentance  the  truth, 
*  That  all  wicked  actions  are  surely  repaid? 


220  ORIGINAL  POEMS 


THE  PIN. 

1  Dear  me !  what  signifies  a  pin, 
Wedged  in  a  rotten  board  ? 

I  'm  certain  that  I  won't  begin, 
At  ten  years  old  to  hoard ! 

I  never  will  be  called  a  miser, 

That  I  'm  determined,'  said  Eliza. 

So  onward  tripped  the  little  maid, 

And  left  the  pin  behind, 
Which  very  snug  and  quiet  laid, 

To  its  hard  fate  resigned ; 
Nor  did  she  think  (a  careless  chit) 
5T  was  worth  her  while  to  stoop  for  it. 

Next  day  a  party  was  to  ride 

To  see  an  air  balloon ; 
And  all  the  company  beside, 

Were  dressed  and  ready  soon, 
But  she  a  woful  case  was  in, 
For  want  of  just  a  single  pin! 

In  vain  her  eager  eye  she  brings 

To  every  darksome  crack, 
There  was  not  one !  and  all  her  things 

Were  dropping  off  her  back. 
She  cut  her  pincushion  in  two, 
But  no  !  not  one  had  slidden  through. 

At  last,  as  hunting  on  the  floor 

Over  a  crack  she  lay, 
The  carnage  rattled  to  the  door, 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  221 

Then  rattled  fast  away ; 
But  poor  Eliza  was  not  in, 
For  want  of  just — a  single  pin. 

There  's  hardly  any  thing  so  small, 

So  trifling  or  so  mean, 
That  we  may  never  want  at  all, 

For  service  unforeseen  ; 
And  wilful  waste,  depend  upon  't, 
Is,  almost  always,  woful  want ! 


THE  LITTLE  BIRD'S  COMPLAINT  TO  HIS 
MISTRESS. 

Here  in  the  wiry  prison,  where  I  sing, 

And  think  of  sweet  green  woods,  and  long  to  fly  : 

Unable  once  to  stretch  my  feeble  wing, 
Or  wave  my  feathers  in  the  clear  blue  sky. 

Day  after  day  the  selfsame  things  I  see, 

The  cold  white  ceiling,  and  tbis  wiry  bouse  ; 
Ah !  how  unlike  my  healthy  native  tree, 

Rocked  by  the  winds  that  whistle  through  the  boughs. 

Mild  spring  returning,  strews  the  ground  with  flowers, 
And  hangs  sweet  May-buds  on  the  hedges  gay; 

But  no  warm  sunshine  cheers  my  gloomy  hours, 
Nor  kind  companion  twitters  on  the  spray! 

Oh!  how  I  long  to  stretch  my  weary  wings, 

And  fly  away  as  far  as  I  can  see  ; 
And  from  the  topmost  bough,  where  Robin  sings, 

Pour  my  wild  songs,  and  be  as  blithe  as  he. 
19* 


222  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

Why  was  I  taken  from  the  waving  nest  ? 

From  fiow'ry  fields,  wide  woods  and  hedges  green, 
Torn  from  my  tender  mother's  downy  breast, 

In  this  sad  prisonhouse  to  die  unseen  ! 

Why  must  I  hear,  in  summer  evenings  fine, 
A  thousand  happier  birds  in  merry  choirs  ? 

And  I,  poor  lonely  I,  forbid  to  join, 

Caged  by  these  wooden  walls  and  golden  wires  ! 

Kind  mistress,  come,  with  gentle  pitying  hand, 
Unbar  my  prison  door,  and  set  me  free  ; 

Then  on  the  white  thorn  bush  I  '11  take  my  stand, 
And  sing  sweet  songs  to  freedom  and  to  thee. 


THE  MISTRESS'S  REPLY  TO  HER  LITTLE  BIRD. 

Dear  little  bird,  do  n't  make  this  piteous  cry, 
My  heart  will  break  to  hear  thee  thus  complain  ; 

Gladly,  clear  little  bird.  I  'd  let  thee  fly, 
If  that  were  likely  to  relieve  thy  pain. 

Sad  was  the  bo}r  who  climbed  the  tree  so  high, 
And  took  thee  bare  and  shivering  from  thy  nest ; 

But  no,  dear  little  bird,  it  was  not  I, 

There  's  more  of  soft  compassion  in  my  breast : 

But  when  I  saw  thee,  gasping  wide  for  breath, 
Without  one  feather  on  thy  callow  skin, 

I  begged  the  cruel  boy  to  spare  thy  death, 
Paid  for  thy  little  life  and  took  thee  in. 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  223 

Fondly  I  fed  thee,  with  the  tenderest  care, 
And  filled  thy  gaping  beak  with  nicest  food ; 

Gave  thee  new  bread  and  butter  from  my  share, 
And  then  with  chick  weed  green,  thy  dwelling  strewed. 

Soon  downy  feathers  dressed  thy  naked  wing, 
Smoothed  by  thy  little  beak  with  beauish  care  ; 

And  many  a  summer's  evening  wouldst  thou  sing, 
And  hop  from  perch  to  perch  with  merry  air. 

But  if  I  now  should  loose  thy  prison  door, 
And  let  thee  out  into  the  world  so  wide, 

Unused  to  such  a  wondrous  place  before, 

Thou  'dst  want  some  friendly  shelter  where  to  hide. 

Thy  brother  birds  would  peck  thy  little  eyes, 
And  fight  the  stranger  from  the  woods  away  ; 

Fierce  hawks  would  chase  thee  tumbling  thro'  the  skies, 
Or  crouching  pussy  mark  thee  for  her  prey. 

Sad  on  the  lonely  blackthorn  wouldst  thou  sit, 
Thy  mournful  song  unpitied  and  unheard, 

And  when  the  wintry  wind  and  driving  sleet 
Came  sweeping  o'er,  they  'd  kill  my  pretty  bird. 

Then  do  not  pine,  my  fav'rite,  to  be  free, 

Plume  up  thy  wings,  and  clear  that  sullen  eye  ; 

I  would  not  take  thee  from  thy  native  tree, 
But  now,  't  would  kill  thee  soon  to  let  thee  fly. 


224  ORIGINAL   POEMS 


THE  TRUE  HISTORY  OF  A  POOR  LITTLE 
MOUSE. 

A  poor  little  mouse  had  once  made  him  a  nest, 
As  he  fancied,  the  warmest,  and  safest,  and  best, 

That  a  poor  little  mouse  could  enjoy  ; 
So  snug,  so  convenient,  so  out  of  the  way, 
This  poor  little  mouse  and  his  family  lay, 

They  feared  neither  pussy  nor  boy. 

It  was  in  a  stove  that  was  seldom  in  use, 

Where  shavings  and  papers  were  scattered  in  loose, 

This  poor  little  mouse  made  his  hole  : 
But  alas !  Master  Johnny  had  seen  him  one  day, 
As  in  a  great  fright  he  had  scampered  away, 

With  a  piece  of  plum-pudding  he  stole. 

As  soon  as  young  Johnny  (who  wicked  and  bad, 
No  pitiful  thoughts  for  dumb  animals  had) 

Descried  the  poor  fellow's  retreat, 
He  crept  to  the  shavings  and  set  them  alight, 
And  before  the  poor  mouse  could  run  off  in  its  fright, 

It  was  scalded  to  death  in  the  heat ! 

Poor  mouse  how  it  squeaked,  I  can  't  bear  to  relate, 
Nor  how  its  poor  little  ones  hopped  in  the  grate, 

And  died  one  by  one  in  the  flame ! 
I  should  not  much  wonder  to  hear  that  one  night, 
This  wicked  boy's  bed-curtains  catching  alight, 

He  suffered  exactly  the  same. 


FOR  INFANT   MINDS.  225 


THE  CHATTERBOX. 

From  morning  till  night  it  was  Lucy's  delight 

To  chatter  and  talk  without  stopping  ; 
There  was  not  a  day  but  she  rattled  away, 

Like  water  forever  a  dropping ! 

As  soon  as  she  rose,  while  she  put  on  her  clothes, 

T  was  vain  to  endeavor  to  still  her ; 
Nor  once  did  she  lack,  to  continue  her  clack, 

Till  again  she  laid  down  on  her  pillow. 

You  '11  think  now,  perhaps,  that  there  would  have  been 
gaps, 

If  she  had  not  been  wonderful  clever ; 
That  her  sense  was  so  great,  and  so  witty  her  pate, 

That  it  would  be  forthcoming  forever : 

But  that 's  quite  absurd,  for  have  you  not  heard, 
That  much  tongue  and  few  brains,  are  connected, 

That  they  are  supposed  to  think  least  who  talk  most, 
And  their  wisdom  is  always  suspected  ? 

While  Lucy  was  young,  if  she  'd  bridled  her  tongue, 

With  a  little  good  sense  and  exertion ; 
Who  knows  but  she  might  now  have  been  our  delight, 

Instead  of  our  jest  and  aversion  ? 


ORIGINAL   POEMS 


THE   SNOWDROP. 

I  saw  a  snowdrop  on  the  bed, 

Green  taper  leaves  among ; 
Whiter  than  driven  snow,  its  head 

On  the  slim  stalk  was  hung. 

The  wintry  winds  came  sweeping  o'er, 

A  bitter  tempest  blew  ; 
The  snowdrop  faded — never  more 

To  glitter  with  the  dew. 

I  saw  a  smiling  infant  laid 

In  its  fond  mother's  arms  ; 
Around  its  rosy  cheek  there  played 

A  thousand  dimpling  charms. 

A  bitter  pain  was  sent  to  take 

The  smiling  babe  away  ; 
How  did  its  little  bosom  shake, 

As  in  a  fit  it  lay ! 

Its  beating  heart  was  quickly  stopped 

And  in  the  earth  so  cold, 
I  saw  the  little  coffin  dropped 

And  covered  up  with  mould. 

Dear  little  children,  who  may  read 
This  mournful  story  through, 

Remember  death  may  come  with  speed, 
And  bitter  pains,  for  you. 


for  Infant  minds.  22? 


THE  YELLOW  LEAF. 

I  saw  a  leaf  come  tilting  down 
From  a  bare,  withered  bough  ; 

The  leaf  was  dead,  the  branch  was  brown, 
No  fruit  was  left  it  now : 

But  much  the  rattling  tempest  blew, 

The  naked  boughs  among ; 
And  here  and  there  came  whirling  through 

A  leaf  that  loosely  hung. 

This  leaf,  they  tell  me,  once  was  green, 

Washed  by  the  showers  soft  ; 
High  on  the  topmost  bough  't  was  seen, 

And  flourished  up  aloft. 

I  saw  an  old  man  totter  slow, 
Wrinkled,  and  weak,  and  gray  ; 

He  'd  hardly  strength  enough  to  go 
Ever  so  short  a  way. 

His  ear  was  deaf,  his  eye  was  dim, 

He  leaned  on  crutches  high  ; 
But  while  I  staid  to  pity  him, 

I  saw  him  gasp  and  die. 

This  poor  old  man  was  once  as  gay 

As  rosy  health  could  be, 
Yes,  and  the  youngest  head  must  lay, 

Ere  long,  as  low  as  he  ! 


ORIGINAL    POEMS 


POOR  POMPEY'S  COMPLAINT. 

Stretched  out  on  a  dunghill,  all  covered  with  snow, 
While  round  him  blew  many  a  pitiless  blast, 

His  breath  short  and  painful,  his  pulse  beating  low, 
Poor  honest  old  Pompey  lay  breathing  his  last. 

Bleak  whistled  the  wind,  and  loud  bellowed  the  storm, 
Cold  pelted  upon  him  the  half  frozen  rain  ; 

And  amid  the  convulsions  that  shattered  his  form, 
Thus  honest  old  Pompey  was  heard  to  complain. 

1  Full  many  a  winter  I  've  weathered  the  blast, 
And  plunged  for  my  master  through  briar  or  bog ; 

And  in  my  old  age,  when  my  vigor  is  past, 
'T  is  cruel,  I  think,  to  forsake  his  poor  dog. 

'I  Ve  guarded  his  dwelling  by  day  and  by  night, 
Impatient  the  roost-robbing  gipsy  to  spy  ; 

And  the  roost-robbing  gipsy  turned  pale  with  affright, 
When  the  flush  of  resentment  shot  fierce  from  my  eye. 

'  On  the  heath  and  the  mountain  I  've  followed  his  flocks 
And  kept  them  secure,  while  he  slept  in  the  sun ; 

Defended  them  safe  from  the  blood-thirsty  fox, 
And  asked  but  a  bone  when  my  labor  was  done. 

i  When  he  worked  in  the  corn-field  with  brawny  hot  back, 
I  watched  by  his  waistcoat  beneath  the  tall  tree, 

And  wo  to  the  robber  that  dared  to  attack 
The  charge  that  my  master  committed  to  me. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  229 

<  When  jogging  from  market,  with  bags  full  of  gold, 

No  moon  to  enliven  his  perilous  way, 
Nor  star  twinkling  bright  through  the  atmosphere  cold* 

'T  was  I  kept  the  slow  creeping  robber  at  bay. 

c  One  night  when  with  cold  overcome  and  oppressed, 
He  sunk  by  the  way-side,  benumbed  in  the  snow, 

I  stretched  my  warm  belly  along  on  his  breast, 

And  moaned,  to  let  kind  hearted  passengers  know. 

'  Yes — long  have  I  served  him  with  courage  and  zeal, 
Till  my  shaking  old  bones  are  grown  brittle  and  dry ; 

And  't  is  an  unkindness  I  bitterly  feel, 

To  be  turned  out  of  doors  on  a  dunghill  to  die ! 

1  I  crawled  to  the  kitchen,  with  pitiful  moan, 

And  showed  my  poor  ribs,  that  were  cutting  my  skin, 

And  looked  at  my  master,  and  begged  for  a  bone, 
But  he  said  I  was  dirty  and  must  not  come  in ! 

1  But 't  is  the  last  struggle  !  my  sorrows  are  o'er  ; 

'T  is  death's  clammy  hand  that  is  glazing  my  eye  ; 
The  keen  gripe  of  hunger  shall  pinch  me  no  more, 

Nor  hard-hearted  master  be  deaf  to  my  cry  ! '      anit 


THE  ENGLISH  GIRL. 

Sporting  on  the  village  green 
The  pretty  English  girl  is  seen ! 

Or  beside  her  cottage  neat, 
Knitting  on  the  garden  seat, 
vol.  v.  20 


230  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

Now  within  her  humble  door, 
Sweeping  clean  the  kitchen  floor, 

Where  upon  the  walls  so  white, 
Hang  her  coppers  polished  bright 

Mary  never  idle  sits, 

She  either  sews,  or  spins,  or  knits, 
Hard  she  labors  all  the  week, 

With  sparkling  eye  and  rosy  cheek. 

And  on  Sunday  Mary  goes, 

Neatly  dressed  in  decent  clothes, 

Says  her  prayers  (a  constant  rule) 
And  hastens  to  the  Sunday  School. 

O  how  good  should  we  be  found, 

Who  live  on  England's  happy  ground ! 

Where  rich  and  poor,  and  wretched  may 
All  learn  to  walk  in  Wisdom's  way. 


THE    POND. 

There  was  a  round  pond,  and  a  pretty  pond  too, 
About  it  white  daises  and  butter-cups  grew, 
And  dark  weeping  willows,  that  stooped  to  the  ground, 
Dipped  in  their  long  branches  and  shaded  it  round. 

A  party  of  ducks  to  this  pond  would  repair, 

To  feast  on  the  green  water- weeds  that  grew  there : 

Indeed  the  assembly  would  frequently  meet 

To  talk  o'er  affairs  in  this  pleasant  retreat. 


FOR  INFANT    MINDS.  231 

Now  the  subjects  on  which  they  were  wont  to  converse 
I  'm  sorry  I  cannot  include  in  my  verse  ; 
For  tho'  I  Ve  oft  listened  in  hopes  of  discerning, 
I  own  't  is  a  matter  that  baffles  my  learning. 

One  day  a  young  chicken,  who  lived  thereabout, 
Stood  watching  to  see  the  ducks  pass  in  and  out : 
Now  standing  tail  upwards,  now  diving  below; 
She  thought  of  all  things  she  should  like  to  do  so. 

So  this  foolish  chicken  began  to  declare, 
' 1  've  really  a  great  mind  to  venture  in  there ; 
My  mother's  oft  told  me  I  must  not  go  nigh, 
But  really,  for  my  part,  I  cannot  tell  why. 

1  Ducks  have  wings  and  feathers,  and  so  have  I  too, 
And  my  feet..... what 's  the  reason  that  they  will  not  do  ? 
Though  my  beak  is  pointed,  and  their  beaks  are  round, 
Is  that  any  reason  that  I  should  be  drowned. 

6  So  why  should  I  not  swim  as  well  as  a  duck  ? 
Suppose  that  I  venture  and  e'en  try  my  luck  ? 
For,'  said  she  (spite  of  all  that  her  mother  had  taught  her) 
*  I  'm  really  remarkably  fond  of  the  water.' 

So  in  this  poor  ignorant  animal  flew, 

And  found  that  her  dear  mother's  cautions  were  true  ; 

She  splashed,  and  she  dashed,  and  she  turned  herself 

round, 
And  heartily  wished  herself  safe  on  the  ground. 

But  now  't  was  too  late  to  begin  to  repent, 
The  harder  she  struggled  the  deeper  she  went ; 
And  when  every  effort  she  vainly  had  tried, 
She  slowly  sunk  down  to  the  bottom  and  died  ! 


232  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

The  ducks,  I  perceived,  began  loudly  to  quack, 
When  they  saw  the  poor  fowl  floating  dead  on  its  back, 
And  by  their  grave  looks,  it  was  very  apparent, 
They  discoursed  on  the  sin  of  not  minding  a  parent. 


THE   SCOTCH  LADDIE. 

Cold  blows  the  north  wind  o'er  the  mountain  so  bare, 
Poor  Sawny  benighted  is  travelling  there, 
His  plaid-cloak  around  him  he  carefully  binds, 
And  holds  on  his  bonnet,  that 's  blown  by  the  winds. 

Long  time  has  he  wandered  his  desolate  way, 
That  wound  him  along  by  the  banks  of  the  Tay ; 
Now  o'er  this  cold  mountain  poor  Sawny  must  roam, 
Before  he  arrives  at  his  dear  little  home. 

Barefooted  he  follows  the  path  he  must  go, 
The  print  of  his  footsteps  he  leaves  in  the  snow : 
And  while  the  white  sleet  patters  cold  in  his  face, 
He  thinks  of  his  home,  and  he  quickens  his  pace. 

But  see  from  afar  he  discovers  a  light, 

That  cheerfully  gleams  on  the  darkness  of  night, 

And  O  what  delights  in  his  bosom  arise ! 

He  knows  't  is  his  dear  little  home  that  he  spies. 

And  now,  when  arrived  at  his  father's  own  door, 
His  fears,  his  fatigues,  his  dangers  are  o'er ; 
His  brothers  and  sisters  press  round  with  delight, 
And  welcome  him  in  from  the  storms  of  the  night. 


FOR  INFANT   MINDS.  233 

For  in  vain  from  the  north  the  keen  winter  winds  blow, 
In  vain  are  the  mountain  tops  covered  with  snow : 
The  cold  of  his  country  can  never  control 
The  affection  that  glows  in  the  highlander's  soul. 


THE  WELSH  LAD. 

Over  the  mountain  and  over  the  rock, 
Wanders  young  Taffy  to  follow  his  flock, 
While  far  above  him  he  sees  the  wild  goats, 
Gallop  about  in  their  shaggy  warm  coats. 

Sometimes  they  travel  in  frolicksome  crowds, 

To  the  mountain's  high  top  that  is  lost  in  the  clouds, 

Then  they  descend  to  the  valley  again, 

Or  scale  the  black  rocks  that  hang  over  the  main. 

Now  when  young  Taffy's  day's  labor  is  o'er, 
He  cheerfully  sits  at  his  own  cottage  door ; 
While  all  his  brothers  and  sisters  around, 
Sit  in  a  circle  upon  the  bare  ground. 

Then  their  good  father,  with  spectacled  nose, 
Reads  the  Bible  aloud,  ere  he  takes  his  repose  , 
While  the  pale  moon  rises  over  the  hill, 
And  the  birds  are  asleep,  and  all  Nature  is  still. 

Now  with  his  harp  old  Llewellin  is  seen, 
And  joins  the  gay  party  that  sits  on  the  green. 
He  leans  in  the  door- way,  and  plays  them  a  tune, 
And  the  children  all  dance  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
20* 


234  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

How  often  the  wretch  in  the  city  so  gay, 

Where  pleasure  and  luxury  follow  his  way ; 

When  health  quite  forsakes  him,  and  cheerfulness  fails, 

Might  envy  a  lad  on  the  mountains  of  Wales ! 


il 


THE  IRISH  BOY. 

Young  Paddy  is  merry  and  happy,  but  poor, 
His  cabin  is  built  in  the  midst  of  the  moor ; 
No  pretty  green  meadows  about  it  are  found, 
But  bogs  in  the  middle  and  mountains  around. 

This  wild  Irish  lad,  of  all  lads  the  most  frisky, 
Enjoys  his  spare  meal  of  potatoes  and  whisky, 
As  he  merrily  sits,  with  no  care  on  his  mind, 
At  the  door  of  his  cabin,  and  sings  to  the  wind. 

Close  down  at  his  feet  lies  his  shaggy  old  dog, 
Who  has  plunged  with  his  master  through  many  a  bog : 
While  Paddy  sings  'Liberty  long  shall  reign  o'er  us,' 
Shag  catches  his  ardor,  and  barks  a  loud  chorus. 

Young  Paddy,  indeed,  is  not  polished  or  mild, 
But  his  soul  is  as  free  as  his  country  is  wild ; 
And  though  unacquainted  with  fashion  or  dress, 
His  heart  ever  melts  at  the  sound  of  distress. 

Then  let  us  not  laugh  at  his  bulls  and  Ins  blunders, 
His  broad  native  brogue,  or  his  ignorant  wonders, 
Nor  will  we  by  ridicule  ever  destroy 
The  honest  content  of  a  wild  Irish  boy. 


FOR   INFANT    MINDS.  235 

And  thus  while  I  sing  of  the  wild  Irish  lad ; 

The  Welsh  boy  ;  the  Scotch,  with  his  waistcoat  of  plaid, 

I  earnestly  pray  that  I  never  may  roam, 

From  England,  dear  England,  my  own  native  home. 


GREEDY  RICHARD. 

■  I  think  I  want  some  pies  this  morning,' 
Said  Dick,  stretching  himself  and  yawning  ; 
So  down  he  threw  his  slate  and  books, 
And  sauntered  to  the  pastry-cook's. 

And  there  he  cast  his  greedy  eyes 
Round  on  the  jellies  and  the  pi 
So  to  select,  with  anxious  » 
The  very  nicest  that  was  there. 

At  last  the  point  was  thus  decided, 
As  ms  opinion  was  dividi  d 
Twixt  pie  and  jelly,  he  was  loath 
Either  to  leave,  to  take  them  both. 

Now  Richard  never  could  be  pleased 
To  eat  till  hunger  was  appeased, 
But  he  'd  go  on  to  cram  and  stuff, 
Long  after  he  had  had  enough. 

*  I  sha'nt  take  any  more,'  said  Dick, 
1  Dear  me,  I  feel  extremely  sick, 
I  cannot  eat  this  other  bit ; 
I  wish  I  had  not  tasted  it.' 


236  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

Then  slowly  rising  from  his  seat, 
He  threw  the  cheesecake  in  the  street, 
And  left  the  tempting  pastry-cook's, 
With  very  discontented  looks. 

Just  then,  a  man  with  wooden  leg 
Met  Dick,  and  held  his  hat  to  beg ; 
And  while  he  told  his  mournful  case, 
Looked  at  him  with  imploring  face. 

Dick  wished  to  relieve  his  pain, 

His  pocket  searched,  but  searched  in  vain, 

And  so  at  last  he  did  declare, 

He  had  not  got  a  farthing  there. 

The  beggar  turned,  with  face  of  grief, 
And  look  of  patient  unbelief, 
While  Richard,  now  completely  tamed, 
Felt  inconceivably  ashamed. 

1 1  wish,'  said  he  (but  wishing  's  vain,) 
1  I  'd  got  my  money  back  again, 
And  had  not  spent  my  last,  to  pay 
For  what  I  only  threw  away, 

Another  time  I  '11  take  advice, 

And  not  buy  things  because  they  're  nice, 

But  rather  save  my  little  store 

To  give  poor  folks,  who  want  it  more. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  237 


DIRTY  JACK. 

There  was  one  little  Jack, 
Not  very  long  back, 

And  't  is  said,  to  his  lasting  disgrace, 
That  he  never  was  seen 
With  his  hands  at  all  clean, 

Nor  yet  ever  clean  was  his  face. 

His  friends  were  much  hurt 
To  see  so  much  dirt, 

And  often  and  well  did  they  scour : 
But  all  was  in  vain, 
He  was  dirty  again 

Before  they  had  done  it  an  hour. 

When  to  wash  he  was  sent, 
He  reluctantly  went, 

With  water  to  splash  himself  o'er  ; 
But  he  left  the  black  streaks, 
All  over  his  cheeks, 

And  made  them  look  worse  than  before. 

The  pigs  in  the  dirt 
Could  n't  be  more  expert 

Than  he  was,  at  grubbing  about ; 
And  the  people  have  thought, 
This  gentleman  ought 

To  be  made  with  four  legs  and  a  snout 

The  idle  and  bad 
May,  like  to  this  lad, 
Be  dirty  and  black,  to  be  sure, 


238  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

But  good  boys  are  seen 
To  be  decent  and  clean, 

Although  they  are  ever  so  poor. 


THE  FARM. 

Bright  glows  the  east  with  blushing  red, 
While  yet  upon  their  wholesome  bed 

The  sleeping  laborers  rest ; 
And  the  pale  moon  and  silver  star 
Grow  paler  still,  and  wandering  far, 

Sink  slowly  to  the  west 

And  see,  behind  the  sloping  hill, 

The  morning  clouds  grow  brighter  still, 

And  all  the  shades  retire ; 
Slowly  the  Sun,  with  golden  ray, 
Breaks  forth  above  the  horizon  gray, 

And  gilds  the  distant  spire. 

And  now,  at  Nature's  cheerful  voice, 
The  hills,  and  vales,  and  woods  rejoice, 

The  lark  ascends  the  skies ; 
And  soon  the  cock's  shrill  notes  alarm, 
The  sleeping  people  at  the  farm, 

And  bid  them  all  arise. 

Then  in  the  dairy's  cool  retreat, 
The  busy  maids  together  meet  : 

The  careful  mistress  sees 
Some  tend  with  skilful  hand  the  churns, 
Where  the  thick  cream  to  butter  turns, 

And  some  the  curdling  cheese. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  239 

And  now  comes  Thomas  from  the  house, 
With  well  known  cry  to  call  the  cows, 

Still  sleeping  on  the  plain ; 
They,  quickly  rising  one  and  all, 
Obedient  to  the  daily  call, 

Wind  slowly  through  the  lane. 

And  see  the  rosy  milk-maid  now, 
Seated  beside  the  horned  cow, 

With  milking  stool  and  pail ; 
The  patient  cow,  with  dappled  hide, 
Stands  still  unless  to  lash  her  side 

With  her  convenient  tail. 

And  then  the  poultry  (Mary's  charge) 
Must  all  be  fed,  and  let  at  large, 

To  roam  about  again  ; 
Wide  open  swings  the  great  barn  door, 
And  out  the  hungry  creatures  pour, 

To  pick  the  scattered  grain. 

Forth  plodding  to  the  heavy  plough, 
The  sun-burnt  laborer  hastens  now, 

To  guide  with  skilful  arm ; 
Thus  all  is  industry  around, 
No  idle  hand  is  ever  found, 

Within  the  busy  farm. 


READING. 

1  A^d  so  you  do  not  like  to  spell, 
Mary,  my  dear, — O  very  well ; 
'T  is  dull  and  troublesome,  you  say 
And  you  had  rather  be  at  play. 


240  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

'Then  bring  me  all  your  books  again, — 
Nay,  Mary,  why  do  you  complain  ? 
For  as  you  do  not  choose  to  read, 
You  shall  not  have  your  books,  indeed. 

;  So,  as  you  wish  to  be  a  dunce, 
Pray  go  and  fetch  me  them  at  once ; 
For  as  you  will  not  learn  to  spell, 
'T  is  vain  to  think  of  reading  well. 

'Now  do  n't  you  think,  you  '11  blush  to  own, 
When  you  become  a  woman  grown, 
Without  one  good  excuse  to  plead, 
That  you  have  never  learned  to  read  ? ' 

'  O  dear  mamma,'  (said  Mary  then) 
'  Do  let  me  have  my  books  again, 
I  never  more  will  fret,  indeed, 
If  you  will  let  me  learn  to  read.' 


IDLENESS. 

Some  people  complain  they  have  nothing  to  do, 

And  time  passes  slowly  away  ; 
They  saunter  about  with  no  object  in  view, 

And  long  for  the  end  of  the  day. 

In  vain  are  their  riches,  or  honors,  or  birth, 

They  nothing  can  truly  enjoy ; 
They  're  the  wretchedest  creatures  that  live  on  the  earth, 

For  want  of  some  pleasing  employ. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  241 

When  people  have  no  need  to  work  for  their  bread, 

And  indolent  always  have  been, 
It  never  so  much  as  comes  into  their  head, 

That  wasting  their  time  is  a  sin. 

But  man  was  created  for  some  useful  employ, 

From  earth's  first  creation  till  now ; 
And  't  is  good  for  his  health,  his  comfort  and  joy, 

To  live  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow. 

And  those  who  of  riches  are  fully  possest, 

Are  not  for  that  reason  exempt, 
If  they  give  themselves  up  to  an  indolent  rest, 

They  are  objects  of  real  contempt. 

The  pleasure  that  constant  employments  create, 

By  them  cannot  be  understood  ; 
And  though  they  may  rank  with  the  rich  and  the  great, 

They  never  can  rank  with  the  good. 


THE  GOOD-NATURED  GIRLS. 

Two  good  little  girls,  Marianne  and  Maria, 

As  happily  lived  as  good  girls  could  desire  ; 

And  though  they  were  neither  grave,  sullen,  nor  mute, 

They  seldom  or  never  were  heard  to  dispute. 

If  one  wTants  a  thing  that  the  other  could  get, 
They  do  'nt  go  to  scratching  or  fighting  for  it! 
But  each  one  is  willing  to  give  up  her  right, 
For  they  'd  rather  have  nothing  than  quarrel  and  fight. 
vol.  v.  21 


242  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

If  one  of  them  happens  to  have  something  nice, 
Directly  she  offers  her  sister  a  slice  ; 
And  not  like  to  some  greedy  children  I  've  known, 
Who  would  go  in  a  corner  to  eat  it  alone. 

When  papa  or  mamma  had  a  job  to  be  done, 

These  good  little  girls  would  immediately  rim, 

And  not  stand  disputing  to  which  it  belonged, 

And  grumble,  and  fret,  and  declare  they  were  wronged. 

Whatever  occurred,  in  their  work  or  their  play, 
They  were  willing  to  yield,  and  give  up  their  own  way  ; 
Then  let  us  try  all  their  example  to  mind, 
And  always,  like  them,  be  obliging  and  kind. 


MISCHIEF. 

Let  those  who  ?re  fond  of  idle  tricks, 
Of  throwing  stones,  and  breaking  bricks, 

And  all  that  sort  of  fun  ; 
Now  hear  a  tale  of  idle  Jim, 
That  they  may  warning  take  by  him, 

Nor  do  as  he  has  done. 

In  harmless  sport  and  healthful  play, 
He  never  passed  his  time  away, 

He  took  no  pleasure  in  it ; 
For  mischief  was  his  only  joy, 
Nor  book,  nor  work,  nor  even  toy, 

Could  please  him  for  a  minute. 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  243 

A  neighbor's  house  he  'd  slily  pass, 
And  throw  a  stone  to  break  the  glass, 

And  then  enjoy  the  joke  ; 
Or  if  a  window  open  stood, 
He  'd  throw  in  stones,  or  bits  of  wood, 

To  frighten  all  the  folk. 

If  travellers  passing  chanced  to  stay, 
Of  idle  Jim  to  ask  the  way, 

He  never  told  them  right ; 
And  then  quite  hardened  in  his  sin, 
Rejoice  to  see  them  taken  in, 

And  laugh  with  all  his  might. 

He  'd  tie  a  string  across  the  street, 
So  to  entangle  people's  feet, 

And  make  them  tumble  down : 
Indeed,  he  was  disliked  so  much, 
That  no  good  boy  would  play  with  such 

A  nuisance  to  the  town. 

At  last,  the  neighbors  in  despair, 
Could  all  these  tricks  no  longer  bear, — 

In  short  (to  end  the  tale) 
The  lad  was  cured  of  all  his  ways, 
One  time,  by  spending  a  few  days 

Inside  the  county  jail. 


THE    SPIDER. 

*  O  look  at  that  great  ugly  Spider, '  said  Ann, 
And  screaming,  she  knocked  it  away  with  her  fan ; 
"T  is  a  great  ugly  creature,  as  ever  can  be, 
I  wish  that  it  would  not  come  crawling  on  me.' 


244  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

1  Indeed,'  said  her  mother,  '  I  '11  venture  to  say, 

'T  will  take  care  next  time  not  to  come  in  your  way  ; 

For  after  the  fright,  the  fall,  and  the  pain, 

I  'm  sure  it  has  much  the  most  cause  to  complain. 

'Now  why  should  you  hate  the  poor  insect,  my  dear ! 
If  it  hurt  you,  there'd  be  some  excuse  for  your  fear ; 
But  if  it  had  known  where  it  was  going  to, 
'T  would  have  hurried  away,  and  not  crawled  upon  you. 

{  For  them  to  fear  us,  is  but  natural  and  just, 

Who  in  less  than  a  moment  could  tread  them  to  dust ; 

But  certainly  we  have  no  cause  for  alarm, 

For  if  they  should  tiy,  they  could  do  us  no  harm. 

c  Now  look — it  has  got  to  its  home,  do  you  see  ? 
What  a  fine  curious  web  it  has  wove  in  the  tree ! 
Now  this,  my  dear  Ann,  is  a  lesson  for  you, 
Only  see  what  industry  and  patience  can  do. 

\  So  when  at  your  business  you  idle  and  play, 
Recollect  what  you  've  seen  of  this  insect  to-day, 
For  fear  it  should  even  be  found  to  be  true, 
That  a  poor  little  spider  is  better  than  you.' 


THE  COW  AND  THE  ASS. 

Hard  by  a  green  meadow  a  stream  used  to  flow, 
So  clear  one  might  see  the  white  pebbles  below ; 
To  this  cooling  stream  the  warm  cattle  would  stray, 
To  stand  in  the  shade  on  a  hot  summer's  day. 


FOR    INFANT   MINDS.  245 

A  cow,  quite  oppressed  with  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
Came  here  to  refresh,  as  she  often  had  done  ; 
And  standing  stock  still,  leaning  over  the  stream, 
Was  musing,  perhaps,  or  perhaps  she  might  dream. 

But  soon  a  brown  ass,  of  respectable  look, 

Came  trotting  up  also,  to  taste  of  the  brook, 

And  to  nibble  a  few  of  the  daisies  and  grass ; 

1  How  d'ye  do?'  said  the  cow,  ;  how  d'ye  do?'  said  the  ass. 

*  Take  a  seat,'  cried  the  cow,  gently  waving  her  hand, 
'  By  no  means,  dear  madam,'  said  he,  '  while  you  stand ;' 
Then  stooping  to  drink,  with  a  complaisant  bow, 
'  Ma'am,  your  health,'  said  the  ass — '  thank  you,  sir,'  said 
the  cow. 

When  a  few  of  these  compliments  more  had  been  past, 
They  laid  themselves  down  on  the  herbage  at  last, 
And  waiting  politely,  as  gentlemen  must, 
The  ass  held  his  tongue,  that  the  cow  might  speak  first. 

Then  with  a  deep  sigh,  she  directly  began, 
1 Do  n't  you  think,  Mr.  Ass,  we  are  injured  by  man? 
'T  is  a  subject  that  lays  with  a  weight  on  my  mind : 
We  certainly  are  much  oppressed  by  mankind. 

Now  what  is  the  reason  (I  see  none  at  all) 
That  I  always  must  go  when  Suke  chooses  to  call ; 
Whatever  I  'm  doing  ('t  is  certainly  hard) 
At  once  I  must  go  to  be  milked  in  the  yard. 

4 1  've  no  will  of  my  own,  but  must  do  as  they  please, 
And  give  them  my  milk  to  make  butter  and  cheese  : 
I  've  often  a  vast  mind  to  knock  down  the  pail, 
Or  give  Suke  a  box  on  the  ears  with  my  tail.' 

0|# 


246  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

1  But,  ma'am,'  said  the  ass,  *  not  presuming  to  teach — 
1  O  dear,  I  beg  pardon — pray  finish  your  speech  ; 
I  thought  you  had  done,  ma'am,  indeed,'  said  the  swain, 
l  Go  on,  and  I  '11  not  interrupt  you  again.' 

c  Why  sir,  I  was  only  agoing  to  observe, 

I  'm  resolved  that  these  tyrants  no  longer  I  '11  serve ; 

But  leave  them  forever  to  do  as  they  please, 

And  look  somewhere  else  for  their  butter  and  cheese.' 

Ass  waited  a  moment,  to  see  if  she  'd  done, 
And  then   '  not  presuming  to  teach,'  he  begun ; 
1  With  submission,  dear  madam,  to  your  better  wit, 
I  own  I  am  not  quite  convinced  by  it  yet. 

1  That  you  're  of  great  service  to  them  is  quite  true, 
But  surely  they  are  of  some  service  to  you  ; 
'T  is  their  nice  green  meadow  in  which  you  regale, 
They  feed  you  in  winter  when  grass  and  weeds  fail. 

'  'T  is  under  their  shelter  you  snugly  repose, 
When  without  it,  dear  ma'am,  you  perhaps  might  be  froze; 
For  my  own  part,  I  know  I  receive  much  from  man, 
And  for  him,*  in  return,  I  do  all  that  I  can.' 

The  cow  upon  this  cast  her  eye  en  the  grass, 

Not  pleased  at  thus  being  reproved  by  an  ass ; 

1  Yet,'  thought  she,  '  I  'm  determined  I  '11  benefit  by  't, 

For  I  really  believe  the  fellow  is  right.'  jane. 


FOR   INFANT    MINDS.  247 


THE   BLIND   SAILOR. 

A  sailor  with  a  wooden  leg, 

A  little  chanty  implores  : 
He  holds  his  tattered  hat  to  beg, 

Come,  let  us  join  our  little  stores. 
Poor  sailor  !  we  ourselves  might  be 
As  wretched  and  as  poor  as  thee. 

A  thousand  thanks,  my  lady  kind, 
A  thousand  blessings  on  your  head  , 

A  flash  of  lightning  struck  me  blind, 
Or  else  I  would  not  beg  my  bread. 

I  pray,  that  you  may  never  be 

As  wretched  and  as  poor  as  me. 

I  watched  amid  tiie  stormy  blast, 

While  horrid  thunders  rent  the  clouds ; 

A  flash  of  lightning  split  the  mast, 

And  danced  among  the  bellowing  shrouds. 

That  moment  to  the  deck  I  fell, 

A  poor,  unhappy  spectacle  ! 

From  that  tremendous,  awful  night, 
I  Ve  never  seen  the  light  of  day ; 

No — not  a  spark  of  glimmering  light 
Has  shone  across  my  darksome  way. 

That  light  I  valued  not  before, 

Shall  bless  these  withered  eyes  no  more. 

My  little  dog— a  faithful  friend, 

Who  with  me  crossed  the  stormy  main, 
Doth  still  my  weary  path  attend, 


248  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

And  comforts  me  in  all  my  pain ; 
He  guides  me  from  the  miry  bog, 
My  poor,  half- famished,  faithful  dog ! 

With  this  companion  at  my  side, 
I  travel  on  my  lonely  way ; 

And  God  Almighty  will  provide 
A  crust  to  feed  us  day  by  day. 

Weep  not  for  me,  my  lady  kind, 

Almighty  God  protects  the  blind. 


THE  WORM. 

No,  little  worm,  you  need  not  slip 

Into  your  hole,  with  such  a  skip ; 

Drawing  the  gravel  as  you  glide 

On  to  your  smooth  and  slimy  side. 

I'm  not  a  crow,  poor  worm,  not  I, 

Peeping  about  your  holes  to  spy, 

And  fly  away  with  you  in  air, 

To  give  my  young  ones  each  a  share. 

No,  and  I  'm  not  a  rolling-stone, 

Creaking  along  with  hollow  groan  ; 

Nor  am  I  of  the  naughty  crew, 

Wlio  do  n't  care  what  poor  worms  go  through, 

But  trample  on  them  as  they  lay, 

Rather  than  step  the  other  way; 

Or  keep  them  dangling  on  a  hook, 

Choaked  in  a  dismal  pond  or  brook, 

Till  some  poor  fish  comes  swimming  past, 

And  finishes  their  pain  at  last. 


FOR    INFANT   MINDS.  249 

For  my  part,  I  could  never  bear 
Your  tender  flesh  to  hack  and  tear, 
Forgetting  that  poor  worms  endure 
As  much  as  I  should  to  be  sure, 
If  any  giant  should  come  and  jump 
On  to  my  back,  and  kill  me  plump, 
Or  run  my  heart  through  with  a  sithe, 
And  think  it  fun  to  see  me  writhe ! 

O  no,  I  'm  only  looking  about, 
To  see  you  wriggle  in  and  out, 
And  drawing  together  your  slimy  rings, 
Instead  of  feet,  like  other  things  : 
So,  little  worm,  do  n't  slide  and  slip 
Into  your  hole,  with  such  a  skip. 


FIRE. 


What  is  it  that  shoots  from  the  mountains  so  high, 

In  many  a  beautiful  spire  ? 
What  is  it  that  blazes  and  curls  to  the  sky  ? 

This  beautiful  something  is  Fire. 

Loud  noises  are  heard  in  the  caverns  to  groan, 

Hot  cinders  fall  thicker  than  snow  ; 
Huge  stones  to  a  wonderful  distance  are  thrown, 

For  burning  fire  rages  below. 

When  Winter  blows  bleak,  and  loud  bellows  the  storm, 

And  frostily  twinkle  the  stars ; 
Then  bright  burns  the  fire  in  the  chimney  so  warm 

And  the  kettle  sings  shrill  on  the  bars. 


250  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

Then  call  the  poor  traveller,  covered  with  snow, 

And  warm  him  with  charity  kind ; 
Fire  is  not  so  warm  as  the  feelings  that  glow 

In  the  friendly,  benevolent  mind. 

By  fire,  rugged  metals  are  fitted  for  use, 

Iron,  copper,  gold,  silver,  and  tin ; 
Without  its  assistance,  we  could  not  produce 

So  much  as  a  minikin  pin. 

Fire  rages  with  fury  wherever  it  comes, 

If  only  one  spark  should  be  dropped, 
Whole  houses,  or  cities,  sometimes  it  consumes, 

Where  its  violence  cannot  be  stopped. 

And  when  the  great  morning  of  judgment  shall  rise, 

How  wide  will  its  blazes  be  curled  ! 
With  heat,  fervent  heat,  it  shall  melt  down  the  skies, 

And  burn  up  this  beautiful  world. 


AIR. 


What  is  it  that  winds  about  over  the  world, 

Spread  thin  like  a  covering  fair  ? 
Into  each  crack  and  crevice  't  is  artfully  curled ; 

This  sly  little  fluid  is — Air. 

In  summer's  still  evening  how  peaceful  it  floats, 
When  not  a  leaf  moves  on  the  spray  ; 

And  no  sound  is  heard  but  the  nightingale's  notes, 
And  merry  gnats  dancing  away. 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS  251 

The  village  bells  glide  on  its  bosom  serene, 

And  steal  in  sweet  cadence  along ; 
The  shepherd's  soft  pipe  warbles  over  the  green, 

And  the  cottage  girls  join  in  the  song. 

But  when  winter  blows,  then  it  bellows  aloud, 

And  roars  in  the  northerly  blast ; 
With  fury  drives  on  the  snowy  blue  cloud, 

And  cracks  the  tall  tapering  mast. 

The  sea  rages  wildly,  and  mounts  to  the  skies 

In  billows  and  fringes  of  foam ; 
And  the  sailor  in  vain  turns  his  pitiful  eyes 

Towards  his  dear,  peaceable  home. 

When  fire  lays  and  smothers,or  gnaws  through  the  beam, 

Air  forces  it  fiercer  to  glow  ; 
And  engines  in  vain  there  cold  torrents  may  stream, 

Unless  the  wind  ceases  to  blow. 

In  the  forest  it  tears  up  the  sturdy  old  oak, 

That  many  a  tempest  had  kuown  ; 
The  tall  mountain's  pine  into  splinters  is  broke, 

And  over  the  precipice  blown. 

And  yet  though  it  rages  with  fury  so  wild, 

On  the  solid  earth,  water,  or  fire, 
Without  its  assistance,  the  tenderest  child, 

Would  struggle,  and  gasp,  and  expire. 

Pure  air,  pressing  into  the  curious  clay, 

Gave  life  to  these  bodies  at  first ; 
And  when  in  the  bosom  it  ceases  to  play, 

We  crumble  again  to  our  dust. 


252  ORIGINAL  POEMS. 


EARTH. 

What  is  it  that 's  covered  so  richly  with  green, 

And  gives  to  the  forest  its  birth  ? 
A  thousand  plants  bloom  on  its  bosom  serene ; 

Whose  bosom  ? — the  bosom  of  Earth. 

Hidden  deep  in  its  bowels  the  emerald  shines, 

The  ruby,  and  amethyst  blue  ; 
And  silver  and  gold  glitter  bright  in  the  mines 

Of  Mexico  rich,  and  Peru. 

Large  quarries  of  granite  and  marble  are  spread 

In  its  wonderful  bosom  like  bones ; 
Chalks,  gravel,  and  coals,  salt,  sulphur,  and  lead, 

And  thousands  of  beautiful  stones. 

Beasts,  savage  and  tame,  of  all  colors  and  forms, 
Either  stalk  in  its  deserts,  or  creep  ; 

White  bears  sit  and  growl  to  the  northerly  storms, 
And  shaggy  goats  bound  from  the  steep. 

The  oak,  and  the  snowdrop,  the  cedar,  and  rose, 

Alike  on  its  bosom  are  seen ; 
The  tall  fir  of  Norway,  surrounded  with  snows, 

And  the  mountain-ash  scarlet  and  green. 

Fine  grass  and  rich  mosses  creep  over  its  hills, 
A  thousand  flowers  breathe  in  the  gale ; 

Tall  water-seeds  dip  in  its  murmuring  rills, 
And  harvests  wave  bright  in  the  vale. 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  25S 

And  when  this  poor  body  is  cold  and  decayed, 
And  this  warm  throbbing  heart  is  at  rest ; 

My  head  upon  thee,  mother  Earth,  shall  be  laid, 
To  find  a  long  home  in  thy  breast. 


WATER. 


What  is  it  that  glitters  so  clear  and  serene, 

Or  dances  in  billows  so  white  ? 
Ships  skimming  along  on  its  surface,  are  seen ; 

'T  is  water  that  glitters  so  bright. 

Sea-weeds  wind  about  in  its  cavities  wet, 

The  pearl  oyster  quietly  sleeps  ; 
A  thousand  lair  shells,  yellow,  amber,  and  jet, 

And  coral,  glow  red  in  its  deeps. 

Whales  lash  the  white  foam  in  their  frolicksome  wrath, 

While  hoarsely  the  winter  wind  roars ; 
And  shoals  of  green  mackerel  stretch  from  the  north, 

And  wander  along  by  our  shores. 

When  tempests  sweep  over  its  bosom  serene, 

Like  mountains  its  billows  arise ; 
The  ships  now  appear  to  be  buried  between, 

And  now  carried  up  to  the  skies. 

It  gushes  out  clear  from  the  sides  of  the  hill, 
And  sparkles  right  down  from  the  steep ; 

Then  waters  the  valley,  and  roars  through  the  mill, 
And  wanders  in  many  a  sweep. 
vol.  v.  22 


254  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

The  traveller  that  crosses  the  desert  so  wide, 

Hot,  weary,  and  stifled  with  dust, 
Longs  often  to  stoop  at  some  rivulet's  side, 

To  quench  in  its  waters  his  thirst. 

The  stately  white  swan  glides  along  on  its  breast, 

Nor  ruffles  its  surface  serene  ; 
And  the  duckling  unfledged  waddles  out  of  its  nest 

To  dabble  in  ditch-water  green. 

The  clouds  blown  about  in  the  chilly  blue  sky, 

Vast  cisterns  of  water  contain  ; 
Like  snowy  white  feathers  in  winter  they  fly, 

In  summer  stream  gently  in  rain. 

When  sunbeams  so  bright  on  the  falling  drops  shine, 

The  rainbow  enlivens  the  shower, 
And  glows  in  the  heavens  a  beautiful  sign, 

That  water  shall  drown  us  no  more. 


TIT  FOR   TAT. 

Tit  for  tat  is  a  very  bad  word, 

As  frequently  people  apply  it ; 
It  means,  as  I  Ve  usually  heard, 

They  intend  to  revenge  themselves  by  it. 
There  is  but  one  place  where  it 's  proper  and  pat, 
And  there,  I  permit  them,  to  say  '  tit  for  tat.' 

Poor  Dobbin,  that  toils  with  his  load, 

Or  gallops  with  master  or  man. 
Do  n't  lash  him  so  fast  on  the  road, 

You  see  he  does  all  that  he  can : 
How  long  has  he  served  you !  do  recollect  that, 
And  treat  him  with  kindness ;  't  is  but  '  tit  for  tat.' 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  255 

Poor  Brindle,  that  lashes  her  tail, 

And  trudges  home  morning  and  night, 
Till  Dolly  appears  with  her  pail, 

To  milk  out  the  fluid  so  white  ; 
Do  n't  kick  her  poor  haunches,  or  beat  her,  and  that, 
To  be  kind  to  poor  Brindle  is  but  *  tit  for  tat.' 

Gray  Donkey,  the  sturdy  old  ass, 

That  jogs  with  his  panniers  so  wide, 
And  wants  but  a  mouthful  of  grass, 

Or  perhaps  a  green  thistle  beside : 
Do  n't  load  him  so  heavy,  he  can  't  carry  that ; 
Poor  Donkey,  I  'm  sure  they  forget  ■  tit  for  tat.' 

There  's  honest  old  Tray  in  the  yard, 

What  courage  and  zeal  has  he  shown  ; 
'T  would  surely  be  cruelly  hard, 

Not  to  cast  the  poor  fellow  a  bone. 
How  fiercely  he  barks  at  the  robbers,  and  that, 
I  'm  sure,  that  to  starve  him,  is  not  '  tit  for  tat.' 

Poor  Puss  that  runs  mewing  about, 

Her  white  belly  sweeping  the  ground  ; 
The  mother  abused  and  kicked  out, 

And  her  innocent  little  ones  drowned ; 
Whenever  she  catches  the  mischievous  rat, 
Be  kind  to  poor  Pussy,  't  is  but  '  tit  for  tat.' 

Whatever  shows  kindness  to  us, 

With  kindness  we  ought  to  repay  ; 
Brindle,  Donkey,  Tray,  Dobbin,  and  Puss, 

And  every  thing  else  in  its  way ; 
In  cases  like  these,  it  is  proper  and  pat, 
To  make  use  of  this  maxim,  and  say,  ■  tit  for  tat.' 


$56  ORIGINAL  POEMS 


JANE  ANi^  ELIZA. 

There  were  two  little  girls,  neither  handsome  nor  plain, 
One's  name  was  Eliza,  the  other  was  Jane ; 
They  were  both  of  one  height,  as  I  have  heard  people  *ay, 
And  both  of  one  age,  I  believe,  to  a  day. 

'T  was  thought  by  most  people,  who  slightly  had  seen  them, 
There  was  not  a  pin  to  be  chosen  between  them  j 
But  no  one  for  long  in  this  notion  persisted, 
So  great  a  distinction  there  really  existed. 

Eliza  knew  well,  that  she  could  not  be  pleasing 
While  fretting  and  fuming,  while  sulky  or  teasing ; 
And  therefore  in  company  artfully  tried, 
Not  to  break  her  bad  habits,  but  only  to  hide. 

So  when  she  was  out,  with  much  labor  and  pain, 

She  contrived  to  look  abnost  as  pleasing  as  Jane  ; 

But  I'm  sure  you'd  have  laughed,  to  have  known  all  the  while, 

How  her  mouth  would  oft  ache  while  she  forced  it  to  smile. 

But  in  spite  of  her  care,  it  would  sometimes  befall 
That  some  cross  event  happened  to  ruin  it  all, 
And  because  it  might  chance  that  her  share  was  the  worst, 
Her  temper  broke  loose,  and  her  dimples  dispersed. 

But  Jane  who  had  nothing  she  wanted  to  hide, 

And  therefore  these  troublesome  arts  never  tried  ; 

Had  none  of  the  care  and  fatigue  of  concealing, 

But  her  face  always  showed  what  her  bosom  was  feeling. 

The  smiles  that  upon  her  sweet  countenance  were, 
At  home  or  abroad,  they  were  constantly  there  ; 
And  Eliza  worked  hard,  but  could  never  obtain 
The  affection  that  freely  was  given  to  Jane. 


FOR   INFANT    MINDS.  257 


ELIZA  AND  JANE. 


Cheer  up,  my  young  friends,  I  have  better  news  now, 
Eliza  has  driven  the  scowl  from  her  brow, 
And  finding  she  paid  to  get  nothing  so  dearly, 
Determined  at  last,  to  be  good-natured  really. 

'T  was  a  great  deal  of  trouble  at  first  I  confess, 
Her  temper  would  rise,  and  't  was  hard  to  repress; 
But  being  a  girl  of  some  sense  and  discerning, 
She  would  not  be  stopped  by  the  trouble  of  turning. 

Ten  times  in  a  day  she  'd  her  work  to  begin, 
When  passion  or  fretfnlness  begged  to  come  in  ; 
But  determined  to  see  their  vile  laces  no  more, 
She  sent  them  ofF  packing,  and  bolted  the  door. 

Sometimes  she  would  kneel  in  her  chamber,  and  pray 
That  God  in  his  meroy  would  take  them  away  ; 
And  God,  who  i>  pleased  with  a  penitent's  cry, 
Bowed  down  in  compassion,  and  helped  her  to  try. 

The  smiles  that  beam  on  her  countenance  fair, 
At  home  and  abroad,  they  are  constantly  there  ; 
And  Eliza  no  longer  is  forced  to  complain, 
That  she  's  not  beloved  like  her  play-fellow  Jane. 


THE    BABY. 

Safe  sleeping  on  its  mother's  breast 
The  smiling  babe  appears, 

Now  sweetly  sinking  into  rest ; 
Now  washed  in  sudden  tears : 

Hush,  hush,  my  little  baby  dear, 

There  's  nobody  to  hurt  you  here. 
22* 


258  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

Without  a  mother's  tender  care, 

The  little  thing  must  die, 
Its  chubby  hands  too  feeble  are 

One  service  to  supply  ; 
And  not  a  tittle  does  it  know 
What  kind  of  world  't  is  come  into. 

The  lamb  sports  gaily  on  the  grass 
When  scarcely  born  a  day  ; 

The  foal,  beside  its  mother  ass, 
Trots  frolicksome  away, 

And  no  creature,  tame  or  wild, 

Is  half  so  helpless  as  a  child. 

To  nurse  the  Dolly,  gaily  drest, 

And  stroke  its  flaxen  hair, 
Or  ring  the  coral  at  its  waist, 

With  silver  bells  so  fair, 
Is  all  the  little  creature  can, 
That  is  so  soon  to  be  a  man. 

Full  many  a  summer's  sun  must  glow 

And  lighten  up  the  skies, 
Before  its  tender  limbs  can  grow 

To  any  thing  of  size  ; 
And  all  the  while  the  mother's  eye 
Must  every  little  want  supply. 

Then  surely,  when  each  little  limb 
Shall  grow  to  healthy  size, 

And  youth  and  manhood  strengthen  him 
For  toil  wand  enterprise, 

His  mother's  kindness  is  a  debt, 

He  never,  never  will  forget. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  259 


THE  POOR  OLD  MAX. 

Ah  !  who  is  it  totters  along, 

And  leans  on  the  top  of  his  stick  ? 
His  wrinkles  are  many  and  long, 

And  his  beard  has  grown  silver  and  thick. 
No  vigor  enlivens  his  frame, 

No  cheerfulness  beams  in  his  eye, 
His  limbs  are  enfeebled  and  lame, 

And  I  think  he  is  going  to  die. 

They  tell  me,  he  once  was  as  young, 

As  gay  and  as  cheerful  as  I, 
That  he  danced  the  green  wood  walks  among, 

And  carolled  his  songs  to  the  sky ; 
That  he  clambered  high  over  the  rocks, 

To  search  where  the  sea-bird  had  been, 
And  followed  his  frolicksoine  flocks 

Up  and  down  the  mountain  so  green. 

But  now  what  a  change  there  appears ! 

How  altered  his  figure  and  face  ! 
Bent  low  with  a  number  of  years, 

How  feeble  and  slow  is  his  pace  ! 
He  thought  a  few  winters  ago, 

Old  age  was  a  great  while  to  come, 
And  it  seems  but  as  yesterday  now, 

That  he  frolicked  in  vigor  and  bloom. 

He  thought  it  was  time  enough  yet, 
For  death  and  the  grave  to  prepare, 

And  seemed  all  his  life,  to  forget 
How  fast  time  would  carry  him  there. 

He  sported  in  spirits  and  ease, 


260  ORIGLNAL    POEMS 

And  religion  thought  troublesome  stuff, 
Till  all  in  a  hurry  he  sees, 

That  he  has  not  half  time  enough. 

Now  weak  with  disorder  and  years, 

And  tottering  into  the  dust, 
He  wishes,  with  penitent  tears, 

He  had  minded  religion  at  first ; 
He  weeps,  and  he  trembles,  and  prays, 

And  wishes  his  life  to  return, 
But  alas !  he  has  wasted  the  blaze, 

And  now  it  no  longer  will  burn. 


THE  NOTORIOUS  GLUTTON. 

A  duck,  who  had  got  such  a  habit  of  stuffing, 
That  all  the  day  long  she  was  panting  and  puffing  ; 
And  by  every  creature,  who  did  her  great  crop  see, 
Was  thought  to  be  galloping  fast  for  a  dropsy. 

One  day  after  eating  a  plentiful  dinner, 

With  full  twice  as  much  as  there  should  have  been  in  her, 

While  up  to  her  eyes  in  the  gutter  a  roking. 

Was  greatly  alarmed  by  the  symptoms  of  choaking. 

Now  there  was  an  old  fellow,  much  famed  for  discerning, 
(A  drake  who  had  taken  a  liking  for  learning) 
And  high  in  repute  with  his  feathery  friends, 
Was  called  Dr.  Drake, — for  this  doctor  she  sends. 

In  a  hole  of  the  dunghill  was  Dr.  Drake's  shop, 
Where  he  kept  a  few  simples  for  curing  the  crop  ; 
Some  gravel  and  pebbles,  to  help  the  digestion, 
And  certain  famed  plants  of  the  Doctor's  selection. 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  261 

So,  taking  a  handful  of  comical  things, 
And  brushing  his  topple  and  pluming  his  wings, 
And  putting  his  feathers  in  apple-pie  order, 
Set  out,  to  prescribe  for  the  lady's  disorder. 

4  Dear  sir,'  said  the  duck,  with  a  delicate  quack, 
Just  turning  a  little  way  round  on  her  back, 
And  leaning  her  head  on  a  stone  in  the  yard, 
« My  case,  Dr.  Drake,  is  exceedingly  hard. 

*  I  feel  so  distended  with  wind,  and  opprest, 

So  squeamish  and  faint — such  a  load  at  my  chest ; 

And  day  after  day,  I  assure  you  it  is  hard, 

To  suffer  with  patience  these  pains  in  my  gizzard.' 

1  Give  me  leave,'  said  the  doctor,  with  medical  look, 

As  her  flabby  cold  paw  in  his  fingers  he  took  ; 

1  By  the  feel  of  your  pulse — your  complaint,  1  've  been 

thinking, 
Is  caused  by  your  habit  of  eating  and  drinking.' 

1  O  no,  sir,  believe  me,'  the  lady  replied, 
(Alarmed  for  her  stomach  as  well  as  her  pride,) 
'  I  am  sure  it  arises  from  nothing  I  eat, 
For  I  rather  suspect  1  got  wet  in  my  feet. 

f 1  've  only  been  roking  a  bit  in  the  gutter, 

Where  the  cook  had  been  pouring  some  cold  melted 

butter ; 
And  a  slice  of  green  cabbage,  and  scraps  of  cold  meat, 
Just  a  trifle  or  two,  that  I  thought  I  could  eat.' 

The  doctor  was  just  to  his  business  proceeding, 
By  gentle  emetics,  a  blister,  and  bleeding, 
When  all  on  a  sudden  she  rolled  on  her  side, 
Gave  a  horrible  quackle,  a  struggle,  and  died ! 


262  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

Her  remains  were  interred  in  a  neighboring  swamp 
By  her  friends  with  a  great  deal  of  funeral  pomp ; 
But  I  've  heard  this  inscription  her  tombstone  was  put  on, 
1  Here  lies  Mrs.  Duck,  the  notorious  glutton : ' 
And  all  the  young  ducklings  are  brought  by  their  friends, 
To  learn  the  disgrace  in  winch  gluttony  ends. 


THE   LITTLE   CRIPPLES   COMPLAINT. 

1  'm  a  helpless  crippled  child, 

Gentle  Christians,  pity  me ; 
Once  in  rosy  health  I  smiled, 

Blithe  and  gay  as  you  can  be, 
And,  upon  the  village  green, 
First  in  every  sport  was  seen. 

Now,  alas !   I  'm  weak  and  low, 

Cannot  either  work  or  play ; 
Tottering  on  my  crutches  slow, 

Drag  along  my  weary  way : 
Now  no  longer  dance  and  sing, 
Gaily  in  the  merry  ring. 

Many  sleepless  nights  I  live, 

Turning  on  my  weary  bed ; 
Softest  pillows  cannot  give 

Slumber  to  my  aching  head ; 
Constant  anguish  makes  it  fly 
From  my  wakeful,  heavy  eye. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  263 

And  when  morning  beams  return, 

Still  no  comfort  beams  for  me  ; 
Still  my  limbs  with  fever  burn, 

Painful  shoots  my  crippled  knee, 
And  another  tedious  day 
Passes  slow  and  sad  away. 

From  my  chamber  windows  high, 

Lifted  to  my  easy  chair, 
I  the  village  green  can  spy — 

Once  I  used  to  follow  there, 
March,  or  beat  my  new-bought  drum : 
Happy  times  !  no  more  to  come. 

There  1  see  my  fellows  gay, 

Sporting  on  the  daisied  turf, 
And  amidst  their  cheerful  play, 

Stopped  by  many  a  merry  laugh ; 
But  the  sight  I  cannot  bear, 
Leaning  in  my  easy  chair. 

Let  not  then  the  scoffing  eye, 

Laugh,  my  twisted  leg  to  see ; 
Gentle  Christian,  passing  by, 

Stop  awhile  and  pity  me, 
And  for  you  I  '11  breathe  a  prayer, 
Leaning  on  my  easy  chair. 


POOR   DONKEY'S   EPITAPH. 

Down  in  this  ditch  poor  Donkey  lies, 
Who  jogged  with  many  a  load  ; 

And  till  the  day  death  closed  his  eyes, 
Browsed  up  and  down  this  road. 


264  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

No  shelter  had  he  for  his  head, 
Whatever  winds  might  blow ; 

A  neighboring  common  was  his  bed, 
Though  dressed  in  sheets  of  snow. 

In  this  green  ditch  he  often  strayed 

To  nip  the  dainty  grass ; 
And  friendly  invitations  brayed, 

To  some  more  hungry  ass. 

Each  market-day  he  jogged  along 
Beneath  the  gardener's  load, 

And  brayed  out  many  a  Donkey's  song 
To  friends  upon  the  road. 

A  tuft  of  grass,  a  thistle  green, 

Or  cabbage-leaf  so  sweet, 
Were  all  the  dainties  he  was  seen 

For  twenty  years  to  eat. 

And  as  for  sport — the  sober  soul 

Was  such  a  steady  Jack, 
He  only  now  and  then  would  roll 

Heels  upwards  on  his  back. 

But  ail  his  sport,  and  dainties  too, 

And  labors,  now  are  o'er, 
Last  night  so  bleak  a  tempest  blew, 

He  could  withstand  no  more. 

He  felt  his  feeble  limbs  benumbed, 
His  blood  was  freezing  slow, 

And  presently  he  tumbled  plump, 
Stone  dead  upon  the  snow. 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  265 

Poor  Donkey  !  travellers  passing  by, 

Thy  cold  remains  shall  see  ; 
And  't  would  be  well,  if  all  who  die 

Had  worked  as  hard  as  thee.  anw. 


THE    ORPHAN. 

Mr  father  and  mother  are  dead, 

No  friend  nor  relation  I  have  ; 
And  now  the  cold  earth  is  their  bed, 

And  daisies  grow  over  the  grave. 

I  cast  my  eyes  into  the  tomb, 

The  sight  made  me  bitterly  cry  ; 
I  said,  and  is  this  the  dark  room 

Where  my  father  and  mother  must  lie  ! 

I  cast  my  eyes  round  me  again, 

In  hopes  some  protector  to  see  ; 
Alas !  but  the  search  was  in  vain, 

For  none  had  compassion  on  me. 

1  cast  my  eyes  up  to  the  sky, 

I  groaned,  though  I  said  not  a  word ; 

Yet  God  was  not  deaf  to  my  cry, 
The  frieud  of  the  fatherless  heard. 

O  yes — and  he  graciously  smiled, 

And  bid  me  on  him  to  depend ; 
He  whispered — fear  not,  little  child, 

For  I  am  thy  father  and  friend.  jane. 

vol.  v.  23 


ORIGINAL   POEMS 


GOING  TO  BED  AT  NIGHT. 

Receive  my  body,  pretty  bed ; 
Soft  pillow,  O  receive  my  head, 

And  thanks,  my  parents  kind : 
Those  comforts  who  for  me  provide, 
Their  precepts  still  shall  be  my  guide, 

Their  love  I  '11  keep  in  mind. 

My  hours  mispent  this  day  I  rue, 
My  good  things  done  how  very  few  ! 

Forgive  my  fault,  O  Lord ! 
This  night,  if  in  thy  grace  I  rest, 
To-morrow  may  I  rise  refreshed, 

To  keep  thy  holy  word. 


RISING   IN  THE   MORNING. 

Thrice  welcome  to  my  opening  eyes 
The  morning  beam,  which  bids  me  rise 

To  all  the  joys  of  youth  ; 
For  thy  protection  whilst    I  slept, 
O  Lord,  my  humble  thanks  accept, 

And  bless  my  lips  with  truth. 

Like  cheerful  birds,  as  I  begin 
This  day,  O  keep  my  soul  from  sin — 
And  all  things  shall  be  well. 


FOR    INFANT   MINDS.  261 

Thou  gav'st  me  health,  and  clothes,  and  food, 
Preserve  me  innocent  and  good, 
Till  evening  curfew*  bell. 


FRANCES  KEEPS  HER  PROMISE. 

My  Fanny,  I  have  news  to  tell, 

Your  diligence  quite  pleases  me, 
You  've  worked  so  neatly,  read  so  wrell, 

With  cousin  Jane  you  may  drink  tea. 

But  pray,  my  dear,  remember  this, 
Although  to  stay  you  should  incline, 

Though  warmly  pressed  by  each  kind  Miss, 
I  wish  you  to  return  by  nine. 

With  many  thanks,  the  little  child 

Assured  mamma  she  would  obey  ; 
When  washed  and  dressed,  she  kissed  and  smiled 

And  with  the  maid  she  went  away. 

When  reached  her  cousin's,  she  was  shown 
To  where  her  little  friends  were  met, 

And  when  her  coming  was  made  known, 
Around  her  flocked  the  cheerful  set. 

*  Curfew  Bell— was  ordered  by  king  William  to  be  rung  at  eight 
o'clock  at  night,  at  the  sound  of  which  all  fire  and  light  was  to  be 
extinguished.  Curfew  comes  from  the  French  courre,  to  cover,  and 
/«,  fire. 


268  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

They  dance,  they  play,  and  sweetly  sing, 
In  every  sport  each  child  partakes, 

And  now  the  servants  sweetmeats  bring, 
With  wine  and  jellies,  fruit  and  cakes. 

In  comes  papa,  and  says — «  My  dears, 
The  magic  lantern  if  you  'd  see, 

And  that  which  on  the  wall  appears, 
Leave  off  your  play,  and  follow  me.' 

Whilst  Frances  too  enjoyed  the  sight, 
Where  moving  figures  all  combine 

To  raise  her  wonder  and  delight, 
She  hears  the  parlor  clock  strike  nine. 

The  boy  walks  in, '  Miss,  Ann  is  come' — 
'  O  dear,  how  soon  !'  the  children  cry ; 

They  press,  but  Fanny  will  go  home, 
And  bids  her  little  friends  good-by. 

6  My  dear  mamma,  am  I  not  good  ? ' 
*  You  are,  indeed,'  mamma  replies, 

1  But  when  you  said,  I  knew  you  would 
Return,  and  thus  you  've  won  a  prize. 

'  This  way,  my  love,  and  see  the  man 
Whom  I  desired  at  nine  to  call : ' 

Down  stairs  young  Frances  swiftly  ran, 
And  found  him  waiting  in  the  halL 

1  Here,  Miss,  are  pretty  birds  to  buy, 

A  parrot  or  macaw  so  gay ; 
A  speckled  dove  with  scarlet  eye, 

But  quickly  choose,  I  cannot  stay. 


FOR   INFANT    MINDS.  269 

*  Would  you  a  Java  sparrow  love  ? ' 

'  No,  no,  I  thank  you,'  said  the  child  ; 

*  I  '11  have  a  beauteous  cooing  dove, 

So  harmless,  innocent,  and  mild ! ' 

'  Your  choice,  my  Fanny,  I  commend, 

No  bird  can  with  the  dove  compare  ; 
But  lest  it  pine  without  a  friend, 

You  may,  my  dear,  choose  out  a  pair.' 


MY  OLD  SHOES. 

You  're  now  too  old  for  me  to  wear,  poor  shoes, 
And  yet  I  will  not  sell  you  to  the  Jew-. 
Yon  wand'ring  little  boy  must  barefoot  go 
Through  mud  and  rain,  and  nipping  frost  and  snow ; 
And  as  he  walks  along  the  road  or  street, 
The  flint  is  sharp,  and  cuts  his  tender  feet. 
My  shoes,  though  old,  might  save  him  many  a  pain  ; 
And  should  I  sell  them,  what  might  be  my  gain  ? 
A  sixpence,  that  would  buy  some  foolish  toy ; 
No,  take  these  shoes,  poor  shiv'ring  barefoot  boy. 


TO  GEORGE  PULLING  BUDS. 

Don't  pull  that  bud,  it  yet  may  grow 

As  fine  a  flower  as  this  ; 
Had  this  been  pulled  a  month  ago, 

We  should  its  beauties  miss. 
You  are  yourself  a  bud,  my  blooming  boy, 
Weigh  well  the  consequence  ere  you  destroy, 
Lest  for  a  present  paltry  sport,  you  kill  a  future  joy. 
23* 


270  ORIGINAL    POEMS 


A  NEW-YEAR'S  GIFT. 

A  charming  present  comes  from  town, 

A  baby-house  quite  neat ; 
With  kitchen,  parlors,  dining-room 

And  chambers  all  complete. 

A  gift  to  Emma  and  to  Rose, 

From  grand-papa  it  came  ; 
Till  little  Rosa  smiled  delight, 

And  Emma  did  the  same. 

They  eagerly  examined  all, 

The  furniture  was  gay ; 
And  in  the  rooms  they  placed  their  dolls, 

When  dressed  in  fine  array. 

At  night  their  little  candles  lit, 

And  as  they  must  be  fed, 
To  supper  down  the  dolls  were  placed, 

And  then  were  put  to  bed. 

Thus  Rose  and  Emma  passed  each  hour, 

Devoted  to  their  play ; 
And  long  were  cheerful,  happy,  kind, 

No  cross  disputes  had  they. 

Till  Rose  in  baby-house  would  change 
The  chairs  which  were  below, 

!  This  carpet  they  will  better  suit ; 
I  think  I  '11  have  it  so.' 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  271 

6  No,  no,  indeed,'  her  sister  said, 

1 1  'm  older,  Rose,  than  you  ; 
And  I  'm  the  pet ;  the  house  is  mine, 

Miss,  what  I  say  is  true.' 

The  quarrel  grew  to  such  a  height, 

Mamma  she  heard  the  noise, 
And  coming  in,  beheld  the  floor 

All  strewed  with  broken  toys. 

*  O  fie,  my  Emma !   naughty  Rose  ! 

Say,  why  thus  sulk  and  pout  ? 
Remember  this  is  New-year's  day, 
And  both  are  going  out.' 

Now  Betty  calls  the  little  girls, 

Ho  !  come  up  stairs  and  dress  ; 
They  still  revile  with  threats  and  taunts, 

And  angry  rage  express. 

But  just  prepared  to  leave  their  room, 

Persisting  yet  in  strife, 
Rose  sickening  fell  on  Betty's  lap, 

As  void  of  sense  or  life. 

Mamma  appeared  at  Betty's  call ; 

John  for  the  doctor  goes  ; 
The  measles,  he  begins  to  think, 

Dread  symptoms  all  disclose. 

1  But  though  I  stay,  my  Emma,  you 
May  go  and  spend  the  day.' 

*  O  no,  mamma,'  replied  the  child, 
1  Do  suffer  me  to  stay. 


212  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

i  Beside  my  sister's  bed  I  '11  sit, 
And  watch  her  with  such  care, 

No  pleasure  can  I  e'er  enjoy, 
Till  she  my  pleasure  share. 

'How  silly  now  seems  our  dispute, 

Not  one  of  us  she  knows ; 
How  pale  she  looks,  how  hard  she  breathes, 

Poor  pretty  little  Rose  ! ' 


THE  CRUEL  THORN. 

A  bit  of  wool  sticks  here  upon  this  thorn, 
Ah  cruel  thorn,  to  tear  it  from  the  sheep  ! 

And  yet,  perhaps,  with  pain  its  fleece  was  worn, 
Its  coat  so  thick,  a  hot  and  cumbrous  heap. 

The  wool  a  little  bird  takes  in  his  bill, 

And  with  it  up  to  yonder  tree  he  flies ; 
A  nest  he  's  building  there  with  matchless  skill, 

Compact  and  close,  that  cold  and  rain  defies. 

To  line  that  nest,  the  wool  so  soft  and  warm, 
Preserves  the  eggs  which  hold  its  tender  young ; 

And  when  they're  hatch'd,  the  wool  will  keep  from  harm 
The  callow  brood,  until  they  're  fledged  and  strong. 

Thus  birds  find  use  for  what  the  sheep  can  spare : 
In  this,  my  child,  a  wholesome  moral  spy, 

And  when  the  poor  shall  crave,  thy  plenty  share ; 
Let  thy  abundance  thus  their  wants  supply. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  273 

NIMBLE  DICK. 

My  boy  be  cool,  do  things  by  rule, 

And  then  you  '11  do  them  right, 
A  story  true  I  '11  tell  to  you, 

'T  is  of  a  luckless  wight. 

He  'd  never  wait,  was  ever  late, 

Because  he  was  so  quick  ; 
This  shatter-brain  did  thus  obtain 

The  name  of  Nimble  Dick. 

All  in  his  best,  young  Dick  was  dressed, 

Cries  he,  1 1  'm  very  dry ! ' 
Though  glass  and  jug,  and  china  mug, 

On  sideboard  stood  hard  by ; 

With  skip  and  jump  unto  the  pump, 

With  open  mouth  he  goes, 
The  water  out  ran  from  the  spout, 

And  wetted  all  his  clothes. 

A  fine  tureen,  as  e'er  was  seen, 

On  dinner  table  stood  ; 
Says  John,  '  't  is  hot : ' — says  Dick,  g  't  is  not, 

I  know  the  soup  is  good.' 

His  brother  bawled,  '  yourself  you  '11  scald  ; 

O  Dick,  you- 're  so  uncouth  ! ' 
Dick  filled  his  spoon,  and  then  as  soon 

Conveyed  it  to  his  mouth. 

And  soon  about  he  spirts  it  out, 

And  cries,  '  O  wicked  soup  ! ' 
His  mother  chid,  his  father  bid 

Him  from  the  table  troop. 


274  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

All  in  despatch,  he  made  a  match 

To  run  a  race  with  Bill ; 
'  My  boy,'  said  he,  '  I  '11  win,  you  '11  see  ; 

I  '11  beat  you,  that  I  will.' 

With  merry  heart,  now  off  they  start, 

Like  ponies  full  in  speed  ; 
Soon  Bill  he  passed,  for  very  fast 

This  Dicky  ran  indeed. 

But  hurry  alJ,  Dick  got  a  fall, 

And  whilst  he  sprawling  lay, 
Bill  reached  the  post,  and  Dicky  lost, 

And  Billy  won  the  day. 

*  Bring  here  my  pad,'  now  cries  the  lad 

Unto  the  servant  John ; 
6 1  '11  mount  astride,  this  day  I  '11  ride, 

So  put  the  saddle  on.' 

No  time  to  waste,  't  was  brought  in  haste, 
Dick  longed  to  have  it  backed  ; 

With  spur  and  boot  on  leg  and  foot, 
His  whip  he  loudly  cracked. 

The  mane  he  grasped,  the  crupper  clasped, 
And  leaped  up  from  the  ground  ; 

All  smart  and  spruce,  the  girt  was  loose, 
He  turned  the  saddle  round. 

Then  down  he  came,  the  scoff  and  shame 

Of  all  the  standers  by : 
Poor  Dick,  alack !  upon  his  back, 

Beneath  the  horse  did  lie. 


FOR   INFANT    MINDS.  275 

Still  slow  and  sure,  success  secure, 

And  be  not  over  quick ; 
For  method's  sake,  a  warning  take 

From  hasty  Nimble  Dick. 


THE  LINNET'S  NEST. 

My  linnet's  nest,  Miss,  will  you  buy ! 

They  're  nearly  fledged — Ah  !  no,  not  I ; 

I  '11  not  encourage  wicked  boys 

To  rob  a  parent  of  its  joys  ; 

Those  darling  joys,  to  feed  its  young, 

To  see  them  grow  up  brisk  and  strong. 

With  care  the  tender  brood  to  nourish, 

To  see  them  plume,  and  perch,  and  flourish ; 

To  hear  them  chirp,  to  hear  them  sing, 

And  see  them  try  the  little  wing, 

To  view  them  chanting  on  the  tree 

The  charming  song  of  liberty. 

I  do  not  like  to  see  them  mope 

Within  a  cage,  devoid  of  hope, 

And  all  the  joys  that  freedom  gives : 

The  pris'ner's  sonnet  only  grieves. 

I  love  their  song,  yet  give  to  me 

The  cheerful  note  that  sings  '  I  'm  free ! ' 


276  ORIGINAL  POEMS 


THE  ITALIAN  GREYHOUND. 

Lightly  as  the  rose  leaves  fall, 
By  the  zephyr  scattered  round ; 

Let  thy  feet,  when  thee  I  call, 
Patting  softly  touch  the  ground. 

Happy  I  to  think  thou  'it  mine  I 
Gentle  greyhound,  come  apace ; 

Beauty's  form  in  every  line, 
Every  attitude  is  grace. 

Speaking  eyes  thou  hast — why  shrink  ? 

'Neath  my  hand  why  tremble  so  ? 
Beauteous  greyhound,  dost  thou  think 

Harm  from  me  ? — believe  me,  no. 

Cruel  dogs  and  savage  men 

Hunt  a  wretched  hare  for  miles, 

Guiltless  greyhound,  here  lie  then, 
Caress  thy  mistress  for  her  smiles. 


THE  USE  OF  SIGHT. 

c  What,  Charles  returned ! '  papa  exclaimed ; 

'  How  short  your  walk  has  been  ! 
But  Thomas — Julia — where  are  they  ? 

Come,  tell  me  what  you  've  seen.' 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  277 

I  So  tedious,  stupid,  dull  a  walk ! ' 

Said  Charles,  '  I  '11  go  uo  more ; 
First  stopping  here,  tlieu  lagging  there, 
O'er  this  and  that  to  pore. 

I I  crossed  the  fields  near  Woodland  House, 
And  just  went  up  the  hill ; 

Then  by  the  river  side  came  down, 
Near  Mr.  Fairplay's  mill.' 

Now  Tom  and  Julia  both  ran  in, 

1  O  dear  papa,'   said  they, 
*  The  sweetest  walk  we  both  have  had, 

O  what  a  pleasant  day  ! 

1  Near  Woodland  House  we  crossed  the  fields 

And  by  the  mill  we  came.' 
'  Indeed,'  exclaimed  papa,  *  how  's  this  ? 

Your  brother  took  the  same.  . 

1  But  very  dull  he  found  the  walk. 

What  have  you  there  ?  let's  see ; 
Come,  Charles,  enjoy  this  charming  treat, 

As  new  to  you  as  me.' 

1  First  look,  papa,  at  this  small  branch, 

Which  on  a  tall  oak  grew, 
And  by  its  slimy  berries  white 

The  mistletoe  we  knew. 

c  A  bird  all  green  ran  up  the  tree, 

A  woodpecker  we  call, 
Who,  with  his  strong  bill,  wounds  the  bark, 

To  feed  on  insects  small. 
vol.  v.  24 


278  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

c  And  many  lapwings  cried  peewit  I 

And  one  among  the  rest, 
Pretended  lameness  to  decoy 

Us  from  her  lowly  nest. 

i  Young  starlings,  martens,  swallows,  all 

Such  lovely  flocks,  so  gay ! 
A  heron  too,  who  caught  a  fish, 

And  with  it  flew  away : 

'  This  bird  we  found,  a  kingfisher, 

Though  dead,  his  plumes  how  bright ! — 

To  have  him  stuffed,  my  dear  papa, 
'T  will  be  a  charnnng  sight. 

1  When  reached  the  heath,  how  wide  the  space, 

The  air  how  fresh  and  sweet ; 
We  plucked  these  flowers  and  diff 'rent  heath 

The  fairest  we  could  meet. 

1  The  distant  prospect  we  admired, 

The  mountains  far  and  blue ; 
A  mansion  here,  a  cottage  there, 

See,  here  's  the  sketch  we  drew. 

A  splendid  sight  we  next  beheld, 

The  glorious  setting  sun, 
In  clouds  of  crimson,  purple,  gold, 

His  daily  race  was  done.' 

1  True  taste  and  knowledge,'  said  papa, 

1  By  observation  's  gained  ; 
You  've  both  used  well  the  gift  of  sight, 

And  thus  reward  obtained. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS.  279 

*  My  Julia  in  this  desk  will  find 

A  drawing-box  quite  new : 
This  spy-glass,  Tom,  you  oft  desired, 

I  think  it  now  your  due. 

1  And  pretty  toys  and  pretty  gifts 

For  Charles  too  shall  be  bought, 
When  he  can  see  the  works  of  God, 

And  prize  them  as  he  ought.' 


THE  MORNING'S  TASK. 

Sit  to  your  books,  the  father  said, 

Nor  play  nor  trifle,  laugh  nor  talk ; 
And  when  at  noon  you  've  spelt  and  read 

I  '11  take  you  all  a  pleasant  walk. 
He  left  the  room,  the  boys  sat  still, 

Each  gravely  bent  upon  his  task ; 
But  soon  die  youngest,  little  Will, 

Of  this  and  that  would  teasing  ask. 

I  Ve  lost  my  ball,'  the  prattler  cried, 

1  Have  either  of  you  seen  my  ball  ? ' 
1  Pray  mind  your  book,'  young  Charles  replied, 

'  Your  noisy  talk  disturbs  us  all. 
Remember  now  what  we  were  told, 

The  time,  I  warn  you,  Will,  draws  near.' 
1  And  what  care  I,'  said  Will  so  bold, 

1  You,  Charles,  I  neither  mind  nor  fear.' 


280  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

He  spun  his  top,  he  smacked  his  whip, 

At  marbles  also  he  would  play, 
And  round  the  room  he  chose  to  skip, 

And  thus  his  hours  he  threw  away. 
But  at  the  window  what  comes  in  ? 

A  lovely  painted  butterfly ! 
'  A  prize  !  a  prize !  that  I  will  win,' 

Young  William  loud  is  heard  to  cry. 

Quick  on  the  table  up  he  leaps, 

Then  on  the  chairs  and  sofa  springs ; 
Now  there,  now  here,  he  softly  creeps ; 

And  now  his  books  and  hat  he  flings. 
The  brilliant  insect  fluttered  round, 

And  out  again  it  gaily  flew  ; 
Then  through  the  window,  with  a  bound, 

Will  jumped,  and  said,  '  I  '11  soon  have  you.' 

From  flower  to  flower  the  boy  it  led, 

He  still  pursued  the  pretty  thing. 
Away  it  sprang  from  bed  to  bed, 

Now  sipping  dew,  now  on  the  wing. 
And  to  the  fields  it  took  its  flight : 

He  thought  the  prize  was  worth  the  chase, 
O'er  hedge  and  ditch,  with  all  his  might, 

He  followed  up  the  pleasing  race. 

To  catch  it,  he  was  much  perplexed, 

The  insect  now  is  seen  no  more  ; 
Whilst  standing  thus  confounded,  vexed, 

He  hears  the  village  clock  strike  four. 
Towards  home  he  hastened  at  the  sound : 

All  shame,  surprise,  and  fear,  and  doubt, 
Nor  sisters,  brothers  could  be  found, 

He  asks,  and  hears  they  're  all  gone  out. 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  281 

With  sorrow  struck,  when  this  was  told, 

He  cried — in  sadness  down  he  sat : 
Now  o'er  the  stones  a  carriage  rolled, 

And  at  the  door  came,  rat  tat  tat. 
And  from  the  coach  the  girls  and  boys 

Stepped  out,  all  smiling,  pleased,  and  gay, 
With  books  and  dolls,  and  pretty  toys, 

Bats,  ninepins,  hoops,  and  kites  had  they. 

1  Why,  Will,  my  boy  ! '  the  father  said, 

1  Come  hither,  child,  but  wherefore  cry ; 
Do  n't  droop  your  face,  why  hang  your  head  ? 

Let 's  see  the  pretty  butterfly. 
I  kept  my  promise,  home  I  came, 

According  to  my  first  intent ; 
You  broke  your  word,  and  yours  the  shame, 

We  then  without  you  shopping  went.' 


THE  OAK. 

The  oak  for  grandeur,  strength,  and  noble  size, 

Excels  all  trees  that  in  the  forest  grow ; 
From  acron  small  that  trunk,  those  branches  rise, 

To  which  such  signal  benefits  we  owe. 
Behold  what  shelter  in  its  ample  shade, 

From  noon  tide  sun,  or  from  the  drenching  rain  ; 
And  of  its  timber  stanch,  vast  ships  are  made, 

To  sweep  rich  cargoes  o'er  the  watery  main. 
24* 


282  ORIGINAL  POEMS 


CARELESS  MATILDA. 

Again,  Matilda,  is  your  work  astray, 
Your  thimble  gone  !   your  scissors,  where  are  they  ? 
Your  needles,  pins,  your  thread,  and  tapes  all  lost ; 
Your  housewife  here,  and  there  your  work-bag  tost. 
Fie,  fie,  my  child  !  indeed  this  will  not  do, 
Your  hair  uncombed,  your  frock  in  tatters  too ; 
I  'm  now  resolved  no  more  delays  to  grant, 
This  day  I  '11  send  you  to  your  stern  old  aunt. 
In  vain  Matilda  wept,  repented,  prayed, 
In  vain  a  promise  of  amendment  made. 

Arrived  at  Austere  Hall,  Matilda  sighed, 

By  Lady  Rigid,  when  severely  eyed : 

'  You  read  and  write,  and  work  well,  as  I  'm  told, 

Are  gentle,  kind,  good-natured,  far  from  bold  ; 

But  very  careless,  negligent,  and  wild, 

When  you  leave  me,  you  '11  be  a  different  child.' 

The  little  girl  next  morn  a  favor  asks, 

4 1  wish  to  take  a  walk.' — '  Go  learn  your  tasks,' 

The  lady  harsh  replies,  '  nor  cry  nor  whine, 

Your  room  you  leave  not  till  you  're  called  to  dine.' 

As  thus  Matilda  sat,  o'erwhelmed  with  shame, 

A  dame  appeared,  Disorder  was  her  name  : 

Her  hair  and  dress  neglected,  soiled  her  face, 

She  squinted,  leered,  and  hobbled  in  her  pace. 

1  Here,  child,'  she  said, '  my  mistress  sends  you  this, 

A  bag  of  silks — a  flower  not  worked  amiss  ; 

A  polyanthus  bright  and  wondrous  gay, 

You  '11  copy  it  by  noon,  she  bade  me  say.' 

Disorder  grinned,  then  shuffling  walked  away. 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  283 

Entangled  were  the  silks  of  every  hue, 

Confused  and  mixed  were  shades  of  pink,  green,  blue; 

She  took  a  thread,  compared  it  with  the  flower, 

1  To  finish  this  is  not  within  my  power. 

Well-sorted  silks  had  lady  Rigid  sent, 

I  might  have  worked,  if  such  was  her  intent.' 

She  sighed,  and  melted  into  sobs  and  tears, 

She  hears  a  noise — and  at  the  door  appears 

A  pretty  maiden,  clean,  well-dressed,  and  neat, 

Her  voice  was  soft,  her  looks  sedate,  yet  sweet : 

1  My  name  is  Order :   do  not  cry,  ray  love  ; 

Attend  to  me,  and  thus  you  may  improve.' 

She  took  the  silks,  and  drew  out  shade  by  shad*', 

In  separate  -  ;h  hue  wit!  laid  ; 

Then  smiling  kindly  left  th 

Matilda  no  I  employ, 

And  sees  the  flower  complete—  I  her  joy  ; 

the  room— 'I'      done  ray  task,9  she  cries ; 

The  lady  looked  with  dish  li<*\ ring  « ; 

I 

'  Why.  mis  is  weH  ! 

Worked  clean,  i  xaet,  and  done  within  the  hour, 

And  now  a  ride,  walk,  or  pi 

Thus  passed  ^'  much  dreaded  da 

At  all  her  tasks  Disorder  would  attend. 
At  all  her  task-  still  <  >rder  stood  her  friend. 
With  tears  and  sighs  her  studies  <he  began, 
These  into  smiles  were  changed  by  Order's  plan: 
No  longer  lady  Rigid  seemed  severe, 
Her  looks  the  negligent  alone  need  fear. 


* 


284  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

And  now  the  day,  the  wished-for  day  is  come, 
When  young  Matilda  's  suffered  to  go  home  ; 
'You  quit  me,  child,  but  oft  to  mind  recall, 
The  time  you  spent  with  me  at  Austere  Hall. 
And  now,  my  dear,  I  '11  give  you  one  of  these, 
Your  servant  she  will  be — take  which  you  please.' 
'  From  me,'  Disorder  asked, '  old  friend,  why  start  ? ' 
Matilda  clasped  sweet  Order  to  her  heart, 
1  My  dearest  girl,'  she  said,  'we  '11  never  part.' 


THE   MUSHROOM    GIRL. 

'T  is  surely  time  for  me  to  rise, 
Though  yet  the  dawn  be  gray ; 

Sweet  sleep,  O  quit  my  closing  eyes, 
For  I  must  now  away, 
The  young  birds  twitter  on  the  spray. 

It  is  not  for  the  dewy  mead 
I  leave  my  soft  repose, 

Where  daisies  nod  and  lambkins  feed  ; 
But  there  the  mushroom  grows, 
And  that  the  sportive  fairy  knows. 

I  '11  rove  the  wide  heath  far  and  near, 
Of  mushrooms  fine  in  quest ; 

But  you  remain,  kind  mother,  here, 
Lie  still  and  take  your  rest, 
Though  we  're  with  poverty  oppressed. 


FOR   INFANT    MINDS.  285 

No  toad-stool  in  my  basket  found ; 
My  mushrooms  when  I  sell, 

I  '11  buy  us  bread,  our  labors  crowned, 
Then  let  our  neighbors  tell, 
That  you  and  I  live  wondrous  well. 


BEASTS,   BIRDS,   AND   FISHES. 

The  Dog  will  come  when  he  is  called 

The  Cat  will  walk  away, 
The  Monkey's  cheek  is  very  bald, 

The  Goat  is  fond  of  play. 
The  Parrot  is  a  prate-a-pace, 

Yet  knows  not  what  she  says  ; 
The  noble  Horse  will  win  the  race, 

Or  draw  you  in  a  chaise. 

The  Pig  is  not  a  feeder  nice, 

The  Squirrel  loves  a  nut, 
The  Wolf  will  eat  you  in  a  trice, 

The  Buzzard's  eyes  are  shut. 
The  Lark  sings  high  up  in  the  air, 

The  Linnet  on  the  tree  ; 
The  Swan  he  has  a  bosom  fair, 

And  who  so  proud  as  he. 

O  yes,  the  Peacock  is  more  proud, 

Because  his  tail  has  * 
The  Lion  roars  so  very  loud, 

He  fills  you  with  surprise. 
The  Raven's  coat  is  shining  black  ; 

Or  rather  raven  gray. 
The  Camel's  bunch  is  on  his  back. 

The  Owl  abhors  the  day. 


286  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

The  Sparrow  steals  the  cherry  ripe, 

The  Elephant  is  wise, 
The  Blackbird  charms  you  with  his  pipe, 

The  false  Hyena  cries. 
The  Hen  guards  well  her  little  chicks, 

The  useful  Cow  is  meek, 
The  Beaver  builds  with  mud  and  sticks, 

The  Lapwing  loves  to  squeak. 

The  little  Wren  is  very  small, 

The  Humming  Bird  is  less  ; 
The  Lady  Bird  is  least  of  all, 

And  beautiful  in  dress. 
The  Pelican  she  loves  her  young, 

The  Stork  his  father  loves ; 
The  Woodcock's  bill  is  very  long, 

And  innocent  are  Doves. 

The  spotted  Tiger 's  fond  of  blood. 

The  Pigeon  feeds  on  peas, 
The  Duck  will  gobble  in  the  mud, 

The  Mice  will  eat  your  cheese. 
A  Lobster 's  black,  when  boiled  he 's  red, 

The  harmless  Lamb  must  bleed. 
The  Codfish  has  a  clumsy  head, 

The  Goose  on  grass  will  feed. 

The  lady  in  her  gown  of  silk, 

The  little  Worm  may  thank, 
The  sick  man  drinks  the  Ass's  milk, 

The  Weasel 's  long  and  lank. 
The  Buck  gives  us  a  venison  dish, 

When  hunted  for  the  spoil : 
The  Shark  eats  up  the  little  fish, 

The  Whale  he  gives  us  oil. 


FOP   INFANT   MINDS.  287 

The  Glow-worm  shines  the  darkest  night, 

With  candle  in  its  tail ; 
The  Turtle  is  the  cit's  delight, 

It  wears  a  coat  of  mail. 
In  Germany  they  hunt  the  Boar, 

The  Bee  brings  honey  home, 
The  Ant  lays  up  a  winter  store, 

The  Bear  loves  honey-comb. 

The  Eagle  has  a  crooked  beak, 

The  Plaice  has  orange  spots  ; 
The  Starling,  if  he  's  taught,  will  speak  ; 

The  Ostrich  walks  and  trots. 
The  child  that  does  not  these  things  know, 

May  yet  be  thought  a  dunce ; 
But  I  will  up  in  knowledge  grow, 

As  youth  can  come  but  once.  Adelaide. 


THE    SPIDER  AND    HIS   WIFE. 

In  a  little  dark  crack  half  a  yard  from  the  ground, 

An  honest  old  spider  resided : 
So  pleasant  and  snug,  and  convenient 't  was  found, 
That  his  friends  came  to  see  it  from  many  miles  round  ; 

It  seemed  for  his  pleasure  provided. 

Of  the  cares,  and  fatigues,  and  distresses  of  life, 

This  spider  was  thoroughly  tired : 
So  leaving  those  scenes  of  contention  and  strife, 
(His  children  all  settled)  he  came  with  his  wife, 

To  live  in  this  cranny  retired. 


288  ORIGINAL  POEMS 

He  thought  that  the  little  his  wife  would  consume, 

'T  would  be  easy  for  him  to  provide  her, 
Forgetting  he  lived  in  a  gentleman's  room, 
Where  came  eveiy  morning,  a  maid  and  a  broom, 
Those  pitiless  foes  to  a  spider. 

For  when  (as  sometimes  it  would  chance  to  befall) 

Just  when  his  neat  web  wTas  completed, 
Brush — came  the  great  broom  down  the  side  of  the  wall, 
And,  perhaps  carried  with  it,  web,  spider,  and  all, 
He  thought  himself  cruelly  treated. 

One  day,  when  their  cupboard  was  empty  and  dry, 

His  wife  (Mrs.  Hairy-leg  Spinner) 
Said  to  him, '  Dear,  go  to  the  cobweb  and  try, 
If  you  can't  find  the  leg  or  the  wing  of  a  fly, 

As  a  bit  of  a  relish  for  dinner.' 

Directly  he  went,  his  long  search  to  resume, 

(For  nothing  he  ever  denied  her) 
Alas !  little  guessing  his  terrible  doom, 
Just  then  came  the  gentleman  into  his  room, 

And  saw  the  unfortunate  spider. 

So,  while  the  poor  fellow,  in  search  of  his  pelf, 

In  the  cobwebs  continued  to  linger, 
The  gentleman  reached  a  long  cane  from  the  shelf, 
(For  certain  good  reasons  best  known  to  himself, 

Preferring  his  stick  to  Ins  finger) — 

Then  presently  poking  him  down  to  the  floor, 

(Not  stopping  at  all  to  consider) 
With  one  horrid  crush  the  whole  business  was  o'er, 
The  poor  little  spider  was  heard  of  no  more, 

To  the  lasting  distress  of  his  widow  ! 


FOR   INFANT  MINDS.  289 


THE   POPPY. 

High  on  a  bright  and  sunny  bed, 

A  scarlet  poppy  grew ; 
And  up  it  held  its  staring  head, 

And  held  it  out  to  view. 

Yet  no  attention  did  it  win 
By  all  these  efforts  made, 

And  less  offensive  had  it  been 
In  some  retired  shade. 

For  though  within  its  scarlet  breast 
No  sweet  perfume  was  found, 

It  seemed  to  think  itself  the  best 
Of  all  the  flowers  around. 

From  this  may  I  a  hint  obtain. 
And  take  great  care  indeed, 

Lest  I  should  grow  as  pert  and  vain. 
As  is  this  gaudy  weed. 


THE  VIOLET. 

Down  in  the  green  and  shady  bed 

A  modest  violet  grew, 
Its  stalk  was  bent,  it  hung  its  head, 
As  if  to  hide  from  view. 
vol.  v.  25 


290  ORIGINAL   POEMS 

And  yet  it  was  a  lovely  flower, 
Its  colors  bright  and  fair ; 

It  might  have  graced  a  rosy  bower, 
Instead  of  hiding  there. 

Yet  there  it  was  content  to  bloom, 

In  modest  tints  arrayed ; 
And  there  it  spreads  its  sweet  perfume, 

Within  the  silent  shade. 

Then  let  me  to  the  valley  go. 
This  pretty  flower  to  see  ; 

That  I  may  also  learn  to  grow, 
In  sweet  humility. 


THE  WAY  TO  BE   HAPPY. 

How  pleasant  it  is,  at  the  end  of  the  day 

No  follies  to  have  to  repent ; 
But  reflect  on  the  past,  and  be  able  to  say, 

That  my  time  has  been  properly  spent 

When  I  've  done  all  my  buisness  with  patience  and  care 
And  been  good,  and  obliging,  and  kind ; 

I  lay  on  my  pillow,  and  sleep  away  there, 
With  a  happy  and  peaceable  mind. 

But  instead  of  all  this,  if  it  must  be  confessed, 

That  I  careless  and  idle  have  been  ; 
I  lay  down  as  usual  to  go  to  my  rest, 

But  feel  discontented  within. 


FOR   INFANT   MINDS.  291 

Then  as  I  do  n't  like  all  the  trouble  I  've  had, 

In  future  I  '11  try  to  prevent  it ; 
For  I  never  am  naughty  without  being  sad, 

Or  good — without  being  contented. 


POVERTY. 

I  saw  an  old  cottage  of  clay, 

And  only  of  mud  was  the  floor ; 
'T  was  all  falling  into  decay, 

And  the  snow  drifted  in  at  the  door, 
y 
Yet  there  a  po^r  family  dwelt, 

In  a  cottage  so  dismal  and  rude  ; 
And  though  gnawing  hunger  they  felt, 

They  'd  scarcely  a  morsel  of  food. 

The  children  were  crying  for  bread, 
And  to  their  poor  mother  they  run : 

1  O  give  us  some  breakfast,'   they  said, 
Alas  !  their  poor  mother  had  none. 

She  viewed  them  with  looks  of  despair; 

She  said  (and  I  am  sure  it  was  true) 
1  'Tis  not  for  myself  that  I  care, 

But,  my  poor  little  children,  for  you.' 

O  then,  let  the  wealthy  and  gay 
But  see  such  a  hovel  as  this, 

That,  in  a  poor  cottage  of  clay, 

They  mav  learn  what  real  misery  is. 


292  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

And  the  little  that  I  have  to  spare, 
I  never  will  squander  away, 

While  thousands  of  people  there  are, 
As  poor  and  as  wretched  as  they. 


CONTENTED  JOHN. 

One  honest  John  Tomkins,  a  hedger  and  ditcher, 
Although  he  was  poor,  did  not  want  to  be  richer ; 
For  all  such  vain  wishes  to  him  were  prevented, 
By  a  fortunate  habit  of  being  contented. 

Though  cold  was  the  weather,  or  dear  was  the  food, 
John  never  was  found  in  a  murmuring  mood ; 
For  this  he  was  constantly  heard  to  declare, 
What  he  could  not  prevent  he  would  cheerfully  bear. 

For  why  should  I  grumble  and  murmur,  he  said  ? 
If  I  cannot  get  meat,  I  can  surely  get  bread ; 
And  though  fretting  may  make  my  calamities  deeper, 
It  never  can  cause  bread  and  cheese  to  be  cheaper. 

If  John  was  afflicted  with  sickness  or  pain, 
He  wished  himself  better,  but  did  not  complain ; 
Nor  lie  down  to  fret,  in  despondence  and  sorrow, 
But  said — that  he  hoped  to  be  better  to-morrow. 

If  any  one  wronged  him,  or  treated  him  ill, 
Why  John  was  good-natured  and  sociable  still ; 
For  he  said — that  revenging  the  injury  done, 
Would  be  making  two  rogues,  where  there  need  be  but 
one. 


FOR    INFANT    MINDS.  293 

And  thus  honest  John,  though  his  station  was  humble, 
Passed  through  this  sad  world  without  even  a  grumble  ; 

And  I  wish  that  some  folks,  who  are  greater  and  richer, 
Would  copy  John  Tomkins,  the  hedger  and  ditcher. 


THE   GAUDY  FLOWER. 

Why  does  my  Anna  toss  her  head, 
And  look  so  scornfully  around, 

As  if  she  'd  scarcely  deign  to  tread, 
Upon  the  daisy-dappled  ground. 

Does  fancied  beauty  fire  thine  i 
The  brilliant  tint,  the  satiu  skin  ? 

Docs  the  loved  glass,  in  passing  by, 
Reflect  a  form  genteel  and  thin  ? 

Alas  !  that  form,  that  brilliant  fire, 

Will  never  win 
They  may  make  flattering  fools  admire, 

IN  rsons  ol  inol  move. 

»ws  the  tulip,  staring,  bold, 
In  the  broad  sunshine  it  abides  ; 
Like  ru  rls,  and  burnished  gold, 

It  shows  its  bulbous,  glossy  sides. 

Bat  who  the  gaudy  flo^ 
EJis  breast,  or  sense 

Admired  it  blows,  negli   • 
Lik<>  a  fair  girl  with  scornful 


294  ORIGINAL    POEMS 

The  heart's  internal  feelings  move 
By  virtues  seated  in  the  inind  ; 

Beauty  excites  more  fear  than  love, 
As  fair,  but  empty  damsels  find. 


SLUTTISHNESS. 

Ah  !   Mary,  my  Mary  where  is  your  Dolly  ? 

Look  here,  I  protest,  on  the  floor  ; 
To  leave  her  about  in  the  dirt  thus  is  folly. 

You  ought  to  be  trusted  no  more. 

I  thought  you  were  pleased,  and  received  her  quite  gladly, 
When  on  your  birth- day  she  came  home  ; 

Did  I  ever  suppose  you  would  use  her  so  sadly, 
And  strew  her  things  over  the  room. 

Her  bonnet  of  straw  you  once  thought  a  great  matter, 

And  tied  it  so  pretty  and  neat ; 
Now  see  how  't  is  crumpled,  no  trencher  is  flatter, 

It  grieves  your  mamma  thus  to  see  't. 

Suppose  (you  're  my  Dolly,  you  know,  little  daughter, 
Whom  I  love  to  dress  neat,  and  see  good) 

Suppose,  in  my  care  of  you,  I  were  to  falter, 
And  let  you  get  dirty  and  rude  ! 

'  But  Dolly  's  mere  wood,  I  am  flesh  and  blood  living, 
And  deserve  better  treatment  and  care  ; ' 

That  is  true,  my  sweet  girl,  't  i3  the  reason  I  'm  giving 
This  lesson  so  sharp  and  severe. 

'T  is  not  for  Dolly  I  'm  anxious  and  fearful, 
Though  she  cost  too  much  to  be  spoiled ; 

I  'm  afraid  lest  yourself  should  grow  sluttish,  not  careful, 
And  that  were  a  dad  thing,  mv  child. 


FOR  INFANT  MINDS  295 


DECEMBER  NIGHT. 

Dark  and  dismal  is  the  night, 
Beating  rain  and  wind  so  high  : 

Close  the  window  shutters  tight. 
And  the  cheerful  fire  come  nigh. 

Hear  the  blasts  in  dreadful  chorus, 
Roaring  through  the  naked  tr 

Just  like  thunder  bursting  o'er  us  ; 
\ow  they  murmur,  now  they  i 

Think  how  many  o'er  tho  wild 
Wander  in  this  dreadful  weather; 

e  poor  mother  with  her  child. 
Scam*  can  keep  her  raga  together. 

Or  a  wretched  family, 

'Neath  some  mud-wall,  ruined  shed, 
Shrugging  close  together,  fie 

On  the  earth — their  only  bed. 

While  we  biI  within  so  warm, 
Sheltered,  comfortable,  safe ; 

Think  how  many  'hide  theston 
Who  no  home,  or  shelter  have. 

Sad  their  lol  is,  wretched  creatm 

How  much  l><  U  wt  : 

itenl  then,  on  our  features 
Sure!]  never  ought  I 


296  ORIGINAL    POEMS 


THE  VILLAGE  GREEN. 

On  the  cheerful  Village  Green, 
Scattered  round  with  houses  neat, 

All  the  boys  and  girls  are  seen, 
Playing  there  with  busy  feet. 

Now  they  frolic,  hand  in  hand, 
Making  many  a  merry  chain  ; 

Then  they  form  a  warlike  band, 
Marching  o'er  the  level  plain. 

Then  ascends  the  worsted  ball ; 

High  it  rises  in  the  air  ; 
Or  against  the  cottage  wall, 

Up  and  down  it  bounces  there. 

Or  the  hoop,  with  even  pace, 
Runs  before  the  merry  crowd  : 

Joy  is  seen  in  every  face ; 
Joy  is  heard  in  clamors  loud. 

For,  among  the  rich  and  gay, 

Fine,  and  grand,  and  decked  in  laces, 
None  appear  more  glad  than  they, 

With  happier  hearts  or  happier  faces. 

Then,  contented  with  my  state, 

Let  me  envy  not  the  great ; 
Since  true  pleasure  may  be  seen 

On  a  cheerful  Village  Green. 


r 


